


Paradiso

by arts_and_letters



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hannibal's Murder Suit, Hannigram - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post Season 3, Relationship Negotiations, Slow Burn, let's run off to Europe together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4796981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arts_and_letters/pseuds/arts_and_letters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We are at a crossroads, you and I. You can go home and hope that I disappear, never to be heard from again. You could call Jack and hope that I turn myself in willingly, allowing you to return to your ready made family, while you spend the rest of your days pretending that all of this never happened.”</p><p>  “Or?”</p><p>  “We could go away together, like I had intended—like we were always meant to do.” </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Treading Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set post series 3, so obviously, major spoilers for the series 3 finale. 
> 
> On that note, I debated just doing a hand wave-y "They survived because TV magic" explanation, which is what I kind of figure Bryan Fuller will do if/when we get a season 4, but instead I've tried to come up with a somewhat reasonable scenario to bridge the gap between them falling in the water and running off to Europe together.
> 
> The title of this story comes from the third book in Dante's Divine Comedy. It seemed fitting given Hannibal's affinity for Dante. Also, I've been ready to post this for days, but I couldn't decide on a title that I really I loved, so "Paradiso" it is. At least until I think of something better.
> 
> Enjoy!

It feels like it takes forever for them to fall, first together, and then separately when the speed of their descent tears them apart.

The impact, when it finally comes, is like being thrown through a plate of glass—sudden, violent, shocking. 

The sharp transition from air to sea is disorienting, and at first, Will can’t tell which way is up and which is down, but he walls off the panicked part of his brain and allows his instincts to take over, letting his body pull him towards the surface.

As soon as his head breaks through the water, he gasps for air, fighting to keep his head afloat above the crash of the waves.

The light of the moon gives an eerie quality to the dark water, making it hard to see anything at a distance. He hears a splash a couple yards away, and he looks over, sees nothing.

Now, the panic that he had successfully contained earlier starts to take over. 

This is wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to survive, but he's alive, and if he's alive, then how could Hannibal—

He takes a deep breath, and shouts Hannibal's name, as loud as he can.

With his heart in his throat, he waits, hoping without reason—

And then he hears it, an answering shout, his name, yelled by that familiar voice. 

He scans the surrounding ocean, but when he sees no signs of life, he starts to wonder if his mind is once again toying with him.

But then he hears his name again, closer, and he looks in the direction of the sound, and his eyes don’t stop until they catch sight of Hannibal in the distance.

Hannibal seems to locate Will at the same time, and without words, without forethought, they swim towards each other, but at an angle, in the direction of the lone rock jutting out of the sea, their paths converging and then merging as they take refuge on the side of the outcropping not being buffeted by the tide.

At first, they are both silent, as they catch their breath, fingers clinging to the rock so that they don’t get dragged away by the waves receding back towards the open water.

 Hannibal recovers his voice before Will can manage to form anything approaching a coherent thought.

“Are you planning on dashing my head against the rocks, or will you wait until we’re in open water and try to drown me?” 

His tone has a hint of good humor, but Will can also read the truth hiding in Hannibal’s seemingly rhetorical question.

While he struggles to come up with an adequate response, Will shakes his head to try to get the hair out of his eyes, but the fringe stays stubbornly attached to his forehead.

Feeling defeated—in every sense of the word—Will rests the uninjured side of his head against the rock and stares at Hannibal, trying to make out his expression in the dark.

Finally, he says, “I may have acted rashly.”

"Then you have broken your pattern. Your past attempts on my life have always been coldly calculated. I wonder, when did you first imagine yourself dragging us over that cliff?”

  “I didn’t plan this out. I got—” 

Will pauses considering his words.

“Swept up in the moment.”  

“And now we are about to be swept up by the tide.” 

Will turns his head so that the front of face is pressed up against the rock, hiding his expression and muffling his words, like a child hiding their face in a parent’s coat when they know they’ve done something worthy of reprimand. 

“Hannibal—”  

“Yes, Will?”  

“I’m sorry.” 

“For conspiring to have the Red Dragon kill me or for throwing us both off the cliff?”

  “Yes.”

 Despite Will’s paltry explanation and apology, Hannibal seems mollified by their exchange.

  “Let’s save an analysis of your actions for a time when we are both on dry land. How bad are your injuries? You seem to be favoring your shoulder.”  

“I did get stabbed. But I can make it.”

 For the first time, Will allows his eyes to truly focus on the man treading water less than two feet away from him.

“What about you? He _shot_ you.”

 “I have not forgotten that fact, but I will survive, despite his best efforts—and yours. At least until your next attempt on my life.”  

“I said I’m—“ 

Not allowing Will to apologize a second time, Hannibal says, “We should decide on a course of action quickly. Sharks have a keen sense of smell, and we're covered in fresh blood, one of their favorite scents.”  

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I think we’ve established your lack of forethought.”

  Looking up at the imposing cliffs, Will asks, “How can we possibly get back up there?"

  “If we head south, eventually the cliffs will merge with the beach, and we'll be able to make our way onto dry land.”

 “And after that?”

“The Dragon abandoned the police car somewhere along the road leading to the house. It's likely that he would have chosen to do it at the lower altitude to ensure he could not be seen from above. If fortune is on our side, we may be able to use his car to get back up to the cabin.”  

"What if we’re unlucky?”

  “Then we will have a long walk ahead of us.”

  “Shit.”

Hannibal gives Will a look of reproach for his language, before saying “Let's focus first on reaching the shore.”  

Suddenly feeling very tired, Will says, “I guess I should take off these pants. They feel like they weigh twenty pounds.”

  “A sound idea.” 

Their shoes had already come off in the earlier chaos, but now they both relieve themselves of the burden of excess clothing. However, the newly exposed skin allows Will to feel the chill of the water much more keenly.

“Why does the Atlantic have to be so cold this time of year?”

  “I find it pleasantly bracing.” 

“You would.”

  Hannibal studies Will carefully, before saying, “If you can get your shirt off, I can wrap it around your injured shoulder. In its current state, it will only make it harder for you to swim, and it's doing little to keep you warm.”

  “My shoulder’s fine.”   

Will pauses, giving Hannibal another sharp look

“How have you not bled out already?”

  “Centuries of excellent breeding. And a bullet wound is cleaner than a knife wound.”  

“Yeah, but a knife comes out the same way it goes in.”  

Before Hannibal has a chance to respond, Will starts to shrug off his shirt, after undoing the few buttons that have survived the fight and subsequent fall. However, he stops a moment later, finding the limited mobility of injured shoulder makes the delicate balancing act of undressing and treading water a nearly impossible challenge.

Hannibal has been watching Will’s movements carefully, and upon seeing his current difficulty, says, with that simultaneously gentle and commanding tone, “Allow me.”  

Will moves closer to Hannibal, and lets him maneuver the shirt off of his left arm, and then, more gently, he eases it off of Will’s injured right side.

Before Hannibal can start to wrap the shirt around Will’s shoulder, Will reaches for it and says, “I’ll do it.”

 Hannibal watches with mild curiosity as Will moves closer rather than farther away, so close that Will can feel Hannibal's breath ghosting across the back of his neck.  

With one hand clutching tightly to the shirt, Will uses the other to reach under Hannibal’s shirt, gently palpating his abdomen, feeling for the entry and exit wounds. Hannibal stiffens when Will’s fingers make contact at the site of his injuries, but he gives no other signals of distress. 

With his examination complete, Will carefully wraps the shirt around Hannibal’s midsection, tying the arms into a knot, loosely enough that it won’t restrict breathing, but with enough force to exert some pressure over the open wounds. 

Will moves back a few inches and then lifts up the edge of Hannibal’s shirt, guiding the soaked cotton over one arm, and then the other.

Hannibal doesn’t protest when Will undresses him, although he does ask, in a light, gently mocking tone, “Is it that kind of party, Will?”

  Caught up in his task, Will’s only response is, “Huh?”

  “A joke from another time.” 

Now that he has pulled off the shirt, Will holds it up and squeezes out some of the excess water, before rolling it up, and once again submerging it. He moves closer again, as he carefully maneuvers Hannibal's shirt so that it's held in place by the shirt already tied around his waist.

In the darkness of the night, Will can’t rely on his eyes to direct him in his underwater task so he lets touch and instinct guide him instead.   It’s a delicate balancing act, staying afloat while adjust the makeshift bandage without causing Hannibal undue pain, trying to tie the shirts so they don’t come loose.

As he works on adjusting the two shirts, he feels himself start to tire from the effort, sinking a little bit lower in the water. Without thinking he moves even closer, so that he can place his chin on Hannibal’s shoulder for balance and support, and he allows his head to gently rest against Hannibal's cheek.

  While Hannibal continues to use his right hand to grip the rock, he reaches around with his left hand to gently cup the back of Will’s head. It’s an action done under the guise of helping to keep Will’s head above water, and neither of them is inclined to look too closely at the touch. 

Once Will is finally satisfied with the makeshift dressing, Will moves back slightly, and Hannibal withdraws his hand. They are no longer touching but still close enough that Will can feel the small currents made by Hannibal’s legs as they rhythmically tread water.

He looks down at the water surrounding Hannibal and takes comfort in the fact that he sees no more blood emerging from the wound and coming up to the surface, at least as far as he can tell when his eyes search the moonlit sea.

 When he looks up again he meets Hannibal’s intense gaze, and for once, he doesn’t shy away from the eye contact. 

With feeling, Hannibal says, “Thank you, Will.”

Will nods his head to acknowledge Hannibal’s words, although the movement is made jerky by an involuntary shiver. He managed to mostly block out the cold while he focused on his task, but now he can think of little else.

Observing Will’s response to the chill of the water, Hannibal says, “You will feel warmer once we start swimming.” 

 “I’m starting to think I’ll never feel warm again.”  

“If you weren’t so lean the cold wouldn’t affect you this severely.”

 Will responds, wryly, “I’d also make a better main course.”  

Once again, Hannibal studies Will carefully, before saying, in a solemn tone, “You are too good to eat.” 

Any response Will might have had is interrupted by the chattering of his teeth. 

“Come closer.”

  The words are part question and part command. Will knows he could resist, he could say no, but he doesn’t. In this moment, he has given up thinking or fighting. He’s decided—without even being conscious of the decision—that for now he’s just going to act, because if he listens to the thoughts flying around in his head, he might drown under the weight of their uncontrolled chaos. 

And so he moves closer to Hannibal once more, and he doesn’t fight when Hannibal pulls Will towards him with his left arm, while his right arm continues acting as an anchor, gripping onto the rock with white knuckles. 

Will turns his head so that the uninjured side of his face is resting on Hannibal’s shoulder, and he wraps both of his arms loosely around Hannibal’s rib cage, far above the bullet wound.

When Hannibal tightens his hold, Will doesn’t fight. In fact, his only response is to lock his arms around Hannibal more securely. Although it’s impossible for either of them not to notice the the way this position mirrors their embrace prior to the fall, they both choose to look past the parallel.

For a long time, neither of them speaks, as Will closes his eyes and allows his mind to settle into the comfort of the water and the safety of Hannibal’s solid presence. 

For the first time, Will is conscious of his relief—relief that they have survived the fall, that he survived and that Hannibal survived with him. He is also conscious of the fact that, in this moment, if he allowed himself to follow the part of his mind which is subject only to emotion, not to reason, he would follow Hannibal to the ends of the earth. 

After some time has elapsed, Hannibal asks, in a quiet tone, “You're no longer shaking. Has the chill of the water loosened its hold?” 

It has—whether because of the physical warmth of Hannibal’s body heat or the psychological comfort of his closeness, the chill no longer seems to reach to his very core. 

Will responds to Hannibal’s inquiry with a nod that Hannibal can feel rather than see. After another minute, Will gently disengages, and Hannibal releases his hold in response.

Once they are separated, Hannibal says, “We should make our way towards the shore.”  

“How far?”

  “Two miles, at the most, although our first priority should be to head out towards the open water, well away from the bluff.”

Will looks over at the cliffs illuminated by the moonlight, and he watches the violent crash of the waves against the rocks. In his mind’s eye, he can see both of them being dashed against the cliff face, and he once again finds himself wondering how they possibly managed to survive the fall.

Hannibal touches Will’s shoulder lightly to bring him back to the present, and Will responds by saying, “I’m ready.”  

“We'll swim at an angle, not directly into the current. We want to avoid tiring ourselves unnecessarily by going head to head with the tide.”  

“Makes sense.”  

“Am I correct in assuming you’re a skilled swimmer?”  

Lightly, Will responds, “How could I fish if I didn’t know how to swim?” 

Then, more seriously, he adds, “I grew up outdoors, and in the South, the only refuge from the heat was the water—lakes and ocean, mostly, since no one we knew could afford a pool. I think I started swimming before I could walk.”  

“That skill will serve you well now.”

  “What about you?”

  “I am a swimmer with moderate talent.”  

“There’s nothing moderate about any of your talents, Dr. Lecter.”  

Hannibal’s lips quirk up the tiniest bit, and with that subtle smile, he says, “Maybe so.”

And without exchanging any more words, they both push off from the rock and begin swimming toward the safety of dry land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just assume for the sake of SCIENCE that Hannibal and Will beimg linked together for most of the fall added additional air resistance that slowed their descent and also that they both managed to land feet first in the water. 
> 
> On a different note, there is something about this fandom that makes me exceptionally long winded. (Not that I was exactly short winded to begin with.) I've had to break the first chapter up into three, maybe four parts. I'm hoping that the extra detail is a good thing because yay more Hannigram rather than a bad thing because like, how does it take 3,000 words just to get them out of the damn ocean. 
> 
> Anyway, whether you loved it or hated it, feedback is always appreciated! The next chapter is pretty much done, so I should be posting it within the next day or two. Stay tuned :)
> 
> Oh, and if you want to see an alternate post season 3 possibility, I made a Hannigram crack video. The quality is not the best, but at least it features a shirtless Mads Mikkelsen:: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wqshPe1EQT0


	2. Finding Solid Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They say, 'You can never go home again.' Is that true for you as well, Will?”  
> 
> “I don’t even know what home is to me anymore.”

No words are exchanged as they make their way through the dark water, although they share quick glances when they come up for air. They never stray far from each other, usually keeping no more than a foot or two between them, knowing that in the dark water, with the strong current, it would only be too easy to become permanently separated. 

After they have been swimming for some time, Will pauses, treading water, as a particularly brutal cramp shoots through his right side, from the tips of his finger to the point where the skin of his shoulder was torn apart by the knife. 

Hannibal stops as well, and he watches as Will curls the fingers of his left hand around his injured shoulder, using the movement of his legs to stay afloat.

The harsh sounds of their breath can be heard over the gentle roar of the water, and as Hannibal moves even closer, Will can feel the warmth of Hannibal’s breath against his neck.

Once he is at Will’s side, Hannibal reaches out, replacing Will’s left hand with his own, gently massaging the straining muscles in Will’s injured arm. 

With a gentle admonishment, Hannibal says, “You’ve reopened the wound. You should have allowed me to bandage it.”

  Will’s response is matter of fact. “You needed it more.”

Then, a moment later, he adds, tiredly, “How much farther?”

  “We are close.” 

Hannibal sounds so confident in his response, but a part of Will wonders whether Hannibal could possibly be sure of that fact. Ultimately, though, Will decides to bury the doubt and put his faith in the words, because he desperately needs them to be true. Otherwise he might just let himself sink into the water completely, and he’s not sure he would have the strength to fight his way back to the surface.

As Hannibal’s fingers skillfully prod at the tight muscles, he says, “Do you believe you can make it to the shore?”

  “What other choice do I have?”

 “You always have a choice.”

A moment later, Hannibal adds, “We will only tire further if we continue to delay. If you can’t make it on your own, you can grab onto my shoulders, and float along behind me. I will pull us both to shore.”  

Will can read the sincerity of Hannibal’s offer in his tone and his expression, and the thought of being able to rest, passively letting himself be pulled along the current is so incredibly tempting. 

But Will can also detect the many layers of exhaustion that even Hannibal—with all his composure and talents for deception—can’t successfully conceal, and Will can’t imagine how Hannibal would have the strength to carry both of them to safety.

Still, Hannibal’s offer gives Will a renewed resolve.

“I can make it.”

  With a nod of acknowledgment, Hannibal says, “Then we will press ahead.”     

 

 

 

When they finally catch sight of the shore, they use their last remaining reserve of strength to increase their pace. As they draw nearer, they both take advantage of the current, allowing it to help guide them towards the beach.

 Hannibal reaches the shore first, and he helps to pull Will up onto the dry land. Once they are finally out of the ocean, they both ease their tired bodies onto the ground. For some time, they lie still, stretched out, taking deep shuddering breaths, ignoring the uncomfortable sensation of the sand and rocks against their mostly bare skin.

Will is the first one to move, driven by the chill in the air and a sudden restlessness. He pushes himself up using his uninjured shoulder and looks out towards the road.

“I guess luck is on our side.”  

Hearing Will’s words, Hannibal sits up gingerly and looks toward the road to where the police car is parked, a little ways off the road.

“It appears the Dragon has given us quite a gift.”

 Will pushes himself up to his feet, trying to ignore the way that every joint and muscle in his body seems to be screaming at him to lie down and never move again.

 He leans down and uses his uninjured arm to help pull Hannibal upright. Then, together, they slowly make their way to the car. 

When they reach it, Hannibal says, “We are doubly fortunate. He left us the keys.”  

For the second time in 24 hours, Will finds himself in the passenger seat of a police car with Hannibal behind the wheel, about to follow that same winding road up the cliffs.

As Hannibal turns the key in the ignition and shifts the car into drive, he says, in a deceptively good humored tone, “So, will you call Jack and have them take me away again?”

  “Would you let me?”

  “I can’t say I look forward to spending more time locked behind glass.” 

“You seemed pretty comfortable there whenever I saw you.” 

“I was happy to see you.”  

“You were happy to torture me.”

 Purposefully not responding to Will’s comment, Hannibal says, “Would you come visit me, if they took me away again?”

  “I—I don’t know.” 

Will’s response isn’t an attempt to obfuscate. In that moment, both options seem unfathomable. Never seeing Hannibal again—even going weeks or months without seeing him—seems unbearable. 

And yet, the thought of visiting Hannibal, separated by a wall of glass, and knowing that his family is— 

As the images of his wife and son come to the forefront of his mind, Will closes his eyes and lets his head fall back heavily, making a thud when it hits the seat.

 “Oh god, Molly and Walter. I don’t—how will I—”

 Will stops when he realizes he can’t possibly convey all of the thoughts and emotions that are bubbling up inside of him. 

As usual, Hannibal has no trouble finding a response.

 “They say, ‘You can never go home again.’ Is that true for you as well, Will?”

  “I don’t even know what home is to me anymore. Maybe I don’t have one. Maybe I never really did.”

  “You could make a new home.”  

Will already knows what Hannibal’s answer will be, but he needs to hear Hannibal say it, so he asks, “Where?”

  “With me, wherever we choose.” 

Will hates the way his treacherous mind is so easily drawn in. The thought of leaving this all behind, running away from everything—from Jack, from the FBI, from vain attempts to fit in with the rest of the world—is incredibly compelling.

In an attempt to control his emotions, Will redirects the conversation to focus on the most salient logistical hurdle.

“They’ll come looking for us.”

  “Perhaps. Or maybe Jack will be content to lay all his burdens to rest.”  

“You could go without me.”

  “I could.”  

“Will you?”

  “We are at a crossroads, you and I. We can go our separate ways, and you can hope that I disappear, never to be heard from again. You could call Jack and hope that I turn myself in willingly, allowing you to return to your ready made family, while you spend the rest of your days pretending that all of this never happened.”  

“Or?”

  “We could go away together, like I had intended—like we were always meant to do.”

  “Will you kill again?” 

“If you are with me? Or if I am once again alone?”

  “Does it matter?”

”  It could.”

  Hannibal pauses, before adding, “Would it trouble you if I did?”

  “Yeah, of course it would.”

  “I have not killed in three years, except for the events of last night, in which you were a more than willing participant.”  

“You were in a locked ward. And you nearly killed Molly and Walter.”

  “That was the Dragon.”

  “It was attempted murder by proxy.”

  “Even so.” 

Returning once again to the concrete obstacles in their path, Will says, “We have nowhere to go. We’ll either be wanted or presumed dead.”  

“There are options available to us.” 

 “Like what? Do you have a secret Swiss Bank account? An apartment in Rome?”

  “It’s a small cottage in Le Perche, a few hours from Paris. And I have more than enough money to keep us comfortable for the foreseeable future.”

  “If there’s any way that the FBI can trace it to you, trust me, all of the money, the house, they’ll be gone.”  

“They didn’t find this place.”  

“No, they didn’t.”  

“They won’t have found the money or the cottage either.”  

“France?”

  “Yes, it’s beautiful there, especially in the spring. I would love to show it to you.” 

In that moment, it is as if the whole world takes on a new shape and color, as the paradigm shifts and the future reshapes. It feels as if all of this has already been decided, preordained by an invisible hand, and Will does not have to worry about making a decision, because all of this has been decided for him.

 “Okay.”  

Hannibal looks surprised at Will’s sudden acquiescence.

 Feeling the need to elaborate further, Will says, “I’ll come with you. To France, or wherever. But there are—I have conditions.”

  “Anything you like.”  

“You haven’t heard them yet.”  

“No, I haven’t. But I’m listening.”

  “You can’t go after Molly or Walter.”  

“Why would I?”

  “That’s not a promise.”  

“I promise never to harm them whether by my own hand or someone else’s.”  

“Thank you.”

  “What else?”  

“Alana and Margot and their son. You can’t go after them either.”  

“If you are with me, Will, then I will leave the happy couple and the Verger heir to enjoy their wealth untroubled by me.” 

“You can’t kill anyone—” 

Will pauses, considering his words carefully, before saying, “You can’t kill anyone unless we agree to it together.”  

“What if someone attacks me?”

 “If someone is attacking you—actually hurting you, not just because they stepped on your toe—then you can defend yourself.”  

“To the death?”

  “If that’s your only choice.”

“What if someone attacks you?”

  “I can take care of myself.”

Hannibal is silent for awhile, as he turns Will’s words over in his mind.  “You ask a lot, Will.”

  “I know. But that’s the only way I can do this. I don’t want to have to wonder or worry, every time you come home late or I read about a murder in the paper.”

  “Your mind will go to those places anyway.”  

“Yeah, but I want to know that my mind is playing games with me, not that you are.”  

“I will always be playing games with you.” 

“You’ll have to come up with a new game.”

“It will not be easy, but I will do my best.”

By now, they have reached the house, the car is in park, engine still on, heat turned up all the way.

Will stares out the window, at the house with its lights on, illuminating the body surrounded by blood and shattered glass.

Quietly, he says, “My father was an alcoholic.”  

If Hannibal is thrown off by the sudden shift in topic, he gives no indication.

“A fact that you never mentioned during the course of our therapy.” 

“It wasn’t that kind of therapy.” 

 “No, it wasn’t.”  

When Will continues staring out the window wordlessly, Hannibal prompts, “What made you think of your father in this moment?” 

“He went to meetings—AA meetings. Sometimes I went with him, when I was too young to stay home alone. I don’t remember much, but I do remember reading the slogans that they had on the walls.”  

“And our conversation made you recall those maxims of recovery?” 

“One, in particular. It was, ’One day at a time.’”

 With a slightly amused tone, Hannibal says, “Are you encouraging me to give up killing one day at a time?”  

“Something like that.” 

“'Progress not perfection' is another one of those sayings.”

  “You’ve always been a perfectionist, Dr. Lecter.”  

“For you, Will, I shall be perfect.”  

With genuine gratitude, Will says, “Thank you.”  

“Is that all?”

  “Yeah. At least for now.”

 “Then I think it would be best if we tend to our injuries and set out before we are discovered.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left comments and kudos on the first chapter! The positive feedback is very encouraging. 
> 
> I'm going to try to get Chapter 3 posted some time this weekend. I've got to finish filling in some parts, although I may end up splitting it up yet again since it's already close to 5,000 words. 
> 
> As always, I really appreciate any feedback on my stories. Thanks for reading!


	3. New Scars, Old Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really can't tell you how much I've appreciated the positive feedback on this story so far! 
> 
> I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. Sometimes I just get caught up in fine tuning my stories. I guess it's one of the hazards of being a perfectionist who has spent a lot of time copy editing other people's writing. On that note, it's always easier to miss things when you're reading your own writing, so if you ever catch any errors, please let me know.
> 
> Anyway, at long last, here's chapter 3.

Will gets out of the police car first, and then he walks around to the driver’s side where Hannibal is still seated, although he has already pushed the door open.

Taking in the other man’s expression in the light thrown off by the house, Will says, “You look terrible.”  

“A bullet wound and a prolonged swim in the Atlantic will have that effect.”

Will extends his uninjured arm, and Hannibal accepts it, allowing Will to pull him up to a standing position.

 The couple inches separating them in height allow Will to position himself so that he can support Hannibal without having to bend over too severely as they make their way slowly towards the house. 

When they are in the house, Hannibal separates from Will, and he walks unassisted for a few steps before easing himself onto the couch, where he reclines in a half seated position, one hand resting protectively over his injured side.

He’s never seen Hannibal like this, pale, weak, pained, battered and bruised. Until this moment, he had always seen Hannibal as being made of steel, almost indestructible, but now, he seems almost human, and Will feels a stab of guilt, recognizing that he had a hand in bringing them both to this place.

All the emotions swirling inside of him drive him out of the present moment, pulling him in a much darker direction of worst case scenarios.

What if Hannibal is injured badly enough that they can’t leave together? What would he do then? Could he let Jack take Hannibal back into custody and go back to Molly, pretend like that was his plan all along?

What would he do if he lost Hannibal, permanently, irrevocably? Could he survive their permanent separation? Would he even want to?

He spent so much time fantasizing about killing Hannibal, planning out how he would do it, but now, could he live with himself, knowing that he was responsible for Hannibal’s death?

Seeming to sense the turn in Will’s thoughts—or at least their general dark direction—Hannibal says, “I told you, Will, you worry too much.”  

His attention shifting back to the present, Will shoots back, “Maybe you don’t worry enough.”  

“If I promise to worry more, would that allow you to worry less?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then I will endeavor to help you put your worries aside.”

  “Are we in therapy again?”

  “In a way we will always be in therapy, you and I.”

  “I think I’ve had enough therapy for one life time. I’m not sure I could survive another round.”  

“Then together we can shed our old identities—patient and psychiatrist—”

 Breaking in, Will adds, “FBI profiler and wanted serial killer.”

 “We can remake ourselves however we choose.” 

The possibility of that is all at once seductive and terrifying, but Will forces himself to focus on their more pressing concerns.

“I assume you have some sort of first aid kit?”

  “This place is very well stocked with medical and surgical supplies.” 

There’s a sick jolt in his stomach at that particular phrasing. Of course, in this place, Hannibal would have the tools of a medical trade. He would need them for his dark designs—to destroy lives, not to save them. 

“In the master bedroom, in a locked chest, under the bed. The key is taped inside a copy of ‘The Canterbury Tales’ on the top shelf of this bookcase.”

Will is so caught up in his thoughts, that he’s not sure at first what Hannibal is referring to.

“What?”

 “The medical supplies. The injuries to your face and shoulder both need cleaning and stitching. Although even with adequate care, there will most likely be some permanent scarring.”  

At the mention of scarring, Will reflexively glances down at his exposed stomach, at the sickle shaped scar on his midsection, but before his brain can get lost in memories of that night, he suddenly becomes very aware of the fact that they are both completely unclothed save for their underwear and the make shift bandage surrounding Hannibal’s midsection.

Once more demonstrating an unnerving ability to read Will’s thoughts in his expression, Hannibal says, “There is a robe hanging in the bathroom that you can wear.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll take the blanket.”

He points to the throw blanket neatly folded on a chair, and Will hands it to him, before going and grabbing the robe from the bathroom. 

Feeling warmer and much less exposed, he heads to the master bedroom, and—ignoring the ache in his shoulder—he drags the heavy wooden chest out from under the bed, into the living room, depositing it on the floor in front of the couch where Hannibal remains, half seated.

Hannibal leans down stiffly as he opens the chest and sorts through the contents to find the materials that he needs.

“The master bathroom is probably a better setting for this.”

  Will takes the medical equipment from Hannibal and is prepared to help Hannibal into the other room, but Hannibal shakes his head once and says, “There are extra towels in the hall closet. I'll be there in a moment.”

  

 

 

 

It is no surprise that the master bathroom would be elegant and expensive. Modern fixtures, white walls and white tiles, luxurious but tasteful.

Along one wall, there is an alcove that houses a large bathtub, raised slightly, and surrounded on all sides by a white tiled ledge, framed by a window looks out onto the sea.

When Hannibal comes in, he has already shed the blanket, and he immediately settles himself on the ledge at one end of the tub, leaning back against the wall for support. 

Looking over at Will who is standing awkwardly in the center of the room, he says, “You’ll need to take off your robe.”

  “I’ll keep it on for now.”  

“I can’t stitch up your shoulder if you have it covered.” 

“Shouldn’t we be taking care of your injuries first?”

 Will looks pointedly at the fabric around Hannibal’s waist, which is stained red with fresh blood.

  “I'll take care of you, then deal with myself.”  

“Hannibal—” 

“I can stitch up the exit wound on my front but not point of entry on my back. You'll be in a better position to assist me if you don't have a gaping hole in your shoulder.”

 “Can’t you at least come up with a better dressing than that?”

Hannibal looks down, and says, “As impressed as I am by your aquatic first aid attempt, we can probably improve the effort now that we're out of the sea.”

Gesturing towards the supplies that Will deposited on the counter, Hannibal says, “Set everything down over here.”

  Will does as Hannibal instructs, while Hannibal unties the shirts and sets them aside in a pile on the floor. He then reaches for a wash cloth from the stack of towels that Will left on a chair, and he runs it under the faucet, using it to clean off the wound on his stomach.   Without being asked, Will hands him a fresh cloth which Hannibal uses to dry the area, before Hannibal takes the gauze and tape, quickly and skillfully covering up the bullet hole.

Will watches Hannibal’s movements, and then Will wets another towel, and moves to Hannibal’s back, where he mimics Hannibal’s earlier actions, washing, drying, and then doing his best to dress the area.

 When he’s finished, Hannibal says, “Now will you allow me to tend to your injuries?”  

Will nods.

 Hannibal turns on the faucet and lets the tub start to fill up with water. 

“Come, sit in the bath.”

When Will hesitates, he adds, “You will need to take off your robe, although you do not have to disrobe further if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Is the bath necessary? I’m not a big fan of water right now.”

“You’re covered in salt and other debris. You need a bath.” 

“As do you, Dr. Lecter.”

  “Let me take care of you, Will, and then I will worry about myself. You don't need to worry about me.”

  Will acquiesces, taking off the robe, and easing into the tub.

As he settles into the warm water, he says, “I worry about everything, including you.”  

“I know. It is an admirable quality, but I have seen the toll it takes on you.” 

As Hannibal examines the wound he says, "It appears that this knife caused almost as much damage going out as it did going in. The length and width of the wound is much greater than the original dimensions of the blade. It's a shame that you couldn't have pulled it out in a less destructive fashion."  
  
Incredulously, Will says, "I pulled a knife out of my shoulder so I could use it to keep a delusional psycohpath from killing you, and you're criticizing me for doing it badly?"

Switching to a sarcastic tone, he adds, "Maybe if the Dragon had done me the favor of stabbing my left shoulder instead of my right, I could have done a better job of extracting it."

As he was talking, Will absentmindedly reached up with his left hand and started prodding at the wound.

Noticing the movement, Hannibal gently but firmly pushes Will's hand out of the way, as he says, "You misunderstand me. I was simply lamenting the fact that circumstances conspired to worsen the damage done to you. I don't fault you for your actions."

The turn in their conversation, the reminder of those desperate minutes that are still so fresh in his mind, leaves Will feeling undone. Suddenly, all he wants to do is withdraw from the world, forget everything that happened, forget the fact that he was the orchestrator of the harm that came to both of them.

As these thoughts circle around in his mind, Will stares at the floor, refusing to make eye contact, knowing that Hannibal will probably be able to read every thought, every emotion in his expression.

Of course, that is exactly what Hannibal wants, to know Will inside and out, every part of him. He's not content to let Will pull away, not when fate has finally conspired to bring them together.

Quietly but with a commanding tone, Hannibal says, "I want you to look at me, Will."  
  
When Will continues to stare at the same tile on the floor, Hannibal reaches towards Will's face, his outstretched hand moving slowly and evenly, in the same way that he would approach a frightened animal, to avoid startling it and to make sure it doesn't turn against him in its fear.

With a light touch, Hannibal directs Will's head so that Will is finally looking at Hannibal rather than the floor. He then adjusts the position of his hand so that he can cup the side of Will's face.

For Will, it's foreign to be touched in such an intimate way by another person. He has hardly had any contact with Molly since the start of this nightmarish ordeal, and even before, she never handled him like this. Her touches were loving and warm, but they were firm, direct, not the gentle caresses that Hannibal seems to favor. 

At first, Will tenses when he feels Hannibal's hand on him, but he does not pull away, even when Hannibal uses his thumb to lightly stroke the skin below the jagged gash on Will's face. Hannibal's hand is surprisingly warm, and despite himself, on some level Will finds the contact grounding, maybe even comforting.

Hannibal's gaze is soft and piercing all at once. He is looking at Will with that expression that makes him feel pinned down, like Hannibal can stare into him and through him, but at the same time, Will doesn't feel threatened, and he doesn't shy away from the gaze.

"I was impressed then and now by your actions, and I will always be grateful for them."

Hannibal's words are quiet and solemn, suffused with many layers of meaning.   
  
When Hannibal withdraws his hand a moment later, Will says, "Isn't that kind of cancelled out by me being the one who arranged for the Dragon to kill you? And then pushing you off a cliff?"

His tone is light, slightly sarcastic, but the touch of humor is only a mask for the guilt and regret that Will can't quite seem to push out of his mind.

"Our good actions can never be fully erased by our misdeeds. I have already forgiven you, so you should not continue to castigate yourself."

With a slight bitterness to his voice, Will says, "I still blame myself for murders that I didn't commit, where my only connection was my aility to understand the mind of the killer. It's not going to be easy to stop feeling guilt for the crimes I actually committed."  
  
Lightly, Hannibal says, "That sounds like the kind of issue you might want to discuss with a therapist."

Caught off guard by the response, Will starts to laugh, although there is a slightly desperate edge to the sound, and the laughter dies quickly when he moves his right shoulder without thinking, causing a sharp pain to shoot up the whole of his arm.

Hannibal has already shifted into his clinical persona.  
  
"I need you to remain still while I clean the laceration on your shoulder."

Silently, and very gently, so as not to cause unnecessary pain, Hannibal uses a cloth to wipe the dried blood and other debris from Will’s injured shoulder. He then grabs a syringe filled with a saline solution to irrigate the wound.

 “I will do my best to be gentle, but this will still be quite painful. Would you like a shot of lidocaine before I start?”  

Quickly, Will says, “No, it’s fine.” 

“Do you suspect I might inject you with something stronger?”

  “Actually, that hadn’t occurred to me. I just don’t want to have my shoulder numb since I’ll be using it to stitch you up."

  A moment later, Will adds, “It can’t hurt more than being stabbed.”

  “Adrenaline has pain relieving properties. You will not have that benefit now."

“I’ll be fine.”

  “Do let me know if you change your mind.” 

After irrigating the wound thoroughly, Hannibal opens the sutures kit and lays the tools out on a clean towel placed over his lap.

“You might want to close your eyes or at least look away.”

  “I prefer to watch. If that's okay.”

With a slight upturn of his lips, Hannibal says, "I've never minded having an audience while I work." 

Returning to the task at hand, Hannibal wipes the area with a thin coating of betadine and uses a bit of rubbing alcohol to sterilize the necessary tools. 

Once he is prepared to start, he says, “The edges of the wound are jagged, but I will do my best to make the joining as painless and seamless as possible.” 

Despite Hannibal's best efforts, it is painful—more painful than Will expected it to be—but he grits his teeth and tries to distract himself, although he can’t help but jerk away reflexively when Hannibal first pulls the edges of the wound together.

 Hannibal pauses, waiting until Will says, “Go ahead.”

Despite the pain, Will manages to remain motionless and silent while Hannibal quickly and skillfully stitches the skin together. 

As he ties off the last stitch, Hannibal says, “Now for your face.”

Before taking out another sutures kit, he adds, “I insist on lidocaine for this. There are many nerve endings in the face, and I need you to remain very still.”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” 

As he prepares to inject the lidocaine, holding the needle so that it hovers above Will’s skin, Hannibal says, “You will feel a small pinch.”

For some reason, those words amuse Will. He’s aware of the years Hannibal spent as a surgeon, but that phrase seems so stereotypical, the same words that thousands of physicians say every day, and there’s something both disorienting and endearing about hearing those words come out of Hannibal’s mouth.

“May I ask what it is that brought a smile to your face?”  

Will hesitates, before responding.

“I was thinking about what you must have been like as a surgeon, before you became a psychiatrist.”

  “I rarely had to interact with patients during my time in the ER. One of the benefits of surgery, at least from a certain perspective.”

  “I’m surprised that you gave it up.”

  “Surgery?”  

“Yeah, it seems like a much better fit. You do enjoy slicing people up.”  

“I prefer them to be awake. Unfortunately, such a practice was considered unacceptable in my previous line of work.”

  “Did you really have to say that right before I let you stitch up my face?”  

“I see no reason to hide my true nature from you, just as I will never ask you to conceal yourself from me. I believe we're both beyond that. Don’t you?”

 “I do. But sometimes I’d rather just forget.”

  “Forget my true nature? Or yours?”

  “Both.”  

“I will endeavor to keep that in mind.” 

Hannibal uses his index finger to once again trace the edge of the gash on Will’s face.   “Can you feel that?’

“No.”

  “Then we can get started.” 

As he irrigates the laceration, Hannibal adds, “I’m afraid you will find it difficult to watch me this time. I could get you a mirror to hold, if it would make you feel more at ease.” 

“I trust you.” 

Will surprises himself with that sentiment, both because he hadn’t planned on saying it and because, having said it, he realizes that the words are true.

 If Hannibal is caught off guard, he doesn’t show it. However, he does respond warmly.

“Your trust is a gift, and I do not plan on letting it go to waste.”  

Hannibal works in silence as he places the first stitch, but then he says, conversationally, “I wonder what it is about your face, Will.” 

“You mean the fact that it’s like catnip for psychopaths? It’s just so stabbable?”

Hannibal pauses his movements, as he says, “It does seem to have that effect.”

 Then, with a slight reprimand, Hannibal adds, “I need you to remain still while I finish up these last stitches.”

 Once he has placed the final stitch and cut off the excess thread, Hannibal says, “Would you like to see?” 

“I don’t know.”

  Despite his words, Will does turn his body so that he can see himself in the large mirror on the wall across from the alcove where they are both seated.

Unsurprisingly, Hannibal’s stitches are elegantly and expertly placed, but Will is still painfully aware of the fact that he will probably bear this mark for the rest of his life. It is not the first one, probably not the last one, but it is certainly the most visible.

 “This is going to leave an ugly scar isn’t it?”

 “It will certainly leave a permanent mark, although I will never see it as ugly.”

Hannibal shifts his position so that they are both facing the mirror, watching their reflected selves rather than each other.

 “Whenever I look at your face in the years to come, I will see this—”

Hannibal’s fingers gently ghost over the broken skin.

“And remember how fate conspired to bring us to this place. That will always be beautiful in my eyes.” 

“Won’t you be reminded of the fact that I tried to kill you?”

 Will pauses, and then adds, “Again.”  

“You tried to kill us both—but you didn’t try hard enough.”

“No, apparently not.”

"I can't help but wonder what drove you toward this particular course of action."  
  
"You mean throwing us off the cliff?"  
  
"I was actually thinking of your conspiring to offer me up as a sacrifice to the Dragon."

“I don’t know what exactly I was thinking. Or maybe I was just thinking so many things that all the overlapping thoughts have turned into static in my memory."  
  
"What outcome were you hoping for, when you set these plans in motion?"

"I had varied and conflicting hopes. It’s as if there were all these parts of me acting in parallel.”  

“It's dangerous when we try to split ourselves into too many pieces.”  

“Yeah, I’m realizing that.”  

“Tell me, Will, which parts of yourself were directing your actions on this fateful day?”  

“It’s less parts of myself than parts of other people that I’ve absorbed into myself.”

  “Was the Dragon one of the many?”  

“His voice was outside my head more than inside it.”

  “What about my voice? Does it still occupy a place in the recesses of your mind?”  

Will hesitates, before saying, “Yes. I’m not sure I’ll ever get your voice out of my head."  
  
Will stops for a moment, reflecting.

"That was your plan all along, wasn't it? You wanted to make a permanent place for yourself in my mind."

“I only want what’s best for you.”

  “Best has always seemed like such a meaningless word to me.” 

Obliquely, Hannibal says, “Words are meaningless but for the meaning we give them.”

  Hannibal returns to the previous thread of their conversation, as he says, “Who else was in your head?”  

“Jack—Jack got into my head. I knew he wanted both you and the Dragon dead, and I knew that he didn’t care how it was done. He just wanted me to do it, and that part of me wanted to do it as well.”  

“I wonder, did you plan for the Dragon to kill me, and then for you to kill him, or did you hope that I would kill him, and you would have the pleasure of killing me?”  

“I was supposed to kill both of you. At least according to The Plan.”  

“The one with the ‘fake’ escape and the mail drop and the personal ads?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “It was very impressive.”

 “It was a terrible plan.”

  “Indeed, it was. And I was impressed by your ability to relay it with something resembling sincerity.” 

Hannibal delivers that last line with a slight upturn of his mouth, and Will responds with a self effacing smile of his own.  

“I guess my acting skills have improved.”  

“You have always had the capacity to deceive, although you are just as often deceiving yourself.” 

Before Will has a chance to respond, he glances down at Hannibal’s midsection, and his thoughts are redirected. 

“Isn’t it your turn now?”

  “Not yet.”

 Hannibal applies a gentle pressure to Will’s uninjured shoulder, encouraging him to sink a little lower into the tub. He then fills a cup with water and carefully pours it over Will’s hair, taking care to make sure none of the water runs into his eyes.  

“Are you washing my hair?”

 “Salt from the ocean will irritate your scalp.”

  “An irritated scalp is pretty far down on the list of my concerns right now. And I can wash my own hair.”  

“Why is it that you are so resistant to letting someone else meet your needs? Or is it just that you resist me?”

  “It isn’t you.”  

“Good. During the course of our journey together, there may be many times when we are forced to rely on each other. I would hate to think that you will be forever fighting my attempts to help you.” 

“There’s helping, and then there’s giving me a bath when I am more than capable of bathing myself.”

  “I have no doubt. But still, allow me this indulgence.”

 “You actually want to be doing this?”

  “I do. And I do believe you owe me.” 

“Is there a time limit on you bringing up the fact that I tried to kill you?”

  “There is. But we have only begun to scratch the surface, and you have brought up that fact many more times than I have.”  

At Hannibal’s words, Will closes his eyes wearily, and Hannibal takes advantage of that to resume his ministrations.    
  
Will finds it surprisingly easy to relax as Hannibal’s strong fingers massage his scalp, skillfully working the shampoo through his hair.    
  
“You’re good at this.”    
  
“I know.”  
  
  “Isn’t immodesty considered rude, Dr. Lecter?”  
  
  “I’ve always disliked false modesty.”

“So it’s only rude if it’s false?”    
  
“Yes.”

 As Hannibal continues gently massaging Will’s scalp, for far longer than is strictly necessary, Will says, “If you’re not careful, I might fall asleep.”

Taking advantage of the change in topic, Hannibal says, “How have you been sleeping lately? Have you laid to rest the demons that drove you to wander the streets late at night?”  
  
  “You were one of those demons.”  
  
  “Yes, and you have tried and failed to rid yourself of my presence. But what of your other demons?”  
  
  “Some of them are gone. Some of them aren’t. And there are some new ones too.”

Quietly, he adds “When I was with Molly, I slept better.”

“But you two have not shared a bed since Jack came to call, have you?”    
  
“No, the closest we’ve come was her sleeping in a hospital bed while I sat in a chair next to her.”

“So is it safe to assume you have not had a restful night’s sleep in quite some time?”  

“It’s been awhile.”

  “Is there anything in particular that has been driving your nightmares as of late?”

 “I don’t mean to be rude, Dr. Lecter, but can’t this therapy session wait for some other time?” 

“It can. But just know, you will find me to be a very placid sleeper.” 

“Are you trying to make me feel bad for being a sweaty, shaking insomniac?”  
  
  “No, I was simply offering my companionship, if you ever find yourself needing the stability of another warm body in the night.”

 “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”  

“See that you do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that in a lot of Hannigram fics this would have been the point where things take a turn towards the X rated. (Seriously, I feel like I've read multiple stories where the main plot is Hannibal gives Will a bath, then they have sex.) However, that just doesn't feel true to the characters the way I envision them, although I have certainly read and enjoyed stories that followed that arc. Nevertheless, this is definitely going to be more of a gradual, slow burn kind of thing. If it helps, you can just think of it as very extended, subtle foreplay. 
> 
> Anyway, I can only hope that content of this chapter helps to make up for the delay in getting it posted and for the lack of smut. On that note, I'd love to hear what you guys thought of this chapter :)


	4. Making Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to start by saying that I really am so thrilled by the positive response I've been getting to this story. It's good to know that I'm not the only one who enjoys a good slow burn Hannigram fic :)
> 
> Before we get to the story, I just want to include a quick warning: This chapter does involve some mildly detailed descriptions of stitching someone up (more detailed than the previous chapter). It’s really pretty mild, especially compared to a lot of things in this show, but I wanted to warn you guys just in case anyone is squeamish about that kind of thing.

Once Will is clean—or at least clean enough—Hannibal hands him a towel and then drains the bath as Will dries himself off. 

While Will wraps the towel around his waist, Hannibal takes out a new sutures kit and prepares to stitch himself up. 

“Watch me closely. You'll have to do the other side.” 

Switching into his teaching voice, Hannibal says, “I will be using a simple interrupted stitch. It is the most basic suturing technique, and you'll find it easiest to replicate.”  

Looking down at his shoulder, Will asks, “What did you use on me?”

  “A vertical mattress stitch. It is often used for parts of the body that are subject to strain and motion, but it also requires a great deal of skill and precision. For your face, I used a modified version, the half buried vertical mattress. It's favored for suturing highly visible areas of the body."

Returning to the more immediate task in front of them, Hannibal holds up an instrument that looks something like a cross between scissors and pliers.

“This is a hemostat. It’s used to hold the needle. You want to grasp the needle securely, at the midpoint, but not with so much pressure that it distorts the metal."

Hannibal demonstrates the action as he just described it, and then he says, “You will place one stitch at a time. Watch carefully.” 

It's easier for Will to focus on Hannibal’s movements now that he’s not the one being stitched up. Will looks on, transfixed, at the way that Hannibal quickly and skillfully sews together the edges of the wound, narrating each move in an even tone. He gives no hint of pain or discomfort, and his hands never pause or falter.

 All too quickly, his task is completed, and he takes out a new sutures kit.

Will looks warily at the curved needle and foreign instrument.

“I’m going to be bad at this.”  
  
  “You have skilled hands. Your lures are exquisite.”   
  
 “Yeah, but you’ve never watched me try to sew on a button.” 

“Earlier this evening you tried to kill me. Nothing you do now could cause as much harm as that.”  
  
  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” 

“It’s a statement of fact.”

“You’ll probably want lidocaine for this.”

 “I will be better able to instruct you if I can feel what you’re doing.”  

“Can I at least get you a shot of whisky?”    
  
“I’m happy to be in your hands, but if you need a dose of liquid courage, I would not fault you.”    
  
“I’d probably just throw it up.”  
  
  “Maybe you need to eat something.”

 “I need a lot of things, but they can wait.” 

As he moves to Hannibal’s back, he says, “Do you want a mirror so you can watch me? Make sure I don’t screw up too badly?”

  “I can guide you without looking over your shoulder—or mine.” 

Will lets out a shaky breath, as he says, “Okay. I’m ready.” 

Hannibal has already used the hemostat to grip the needle in the appropriate position. As he hands it to Will, he says, “Clear your mind, and allow yourself to relax. You’ll want to have steady hands for this.”

  Only half joking, Will says, “Maybe I do need a shot of liquid courage.”  

“There’s an excellent bottle of—”

  “Don’t tempt me. I’m pretty sure the smell of alcohol would be enough to get me drunk right now.”  

“Then maybe it is best that we save the whiskey for another time.” 

Still stalling, Will says, “Shouldn’t I practice on something first?”  

“That would be ideal if we had the time and resources, but unfortunately we have neither.”  

“What if I screw this up?”  

“If you place a stitch incorrectly, we can always take it out.”  

With a touch of vulnerability in his voice—a vulnerability that Hannibal finds immensely appealing—Will says, “I don’t want to hurt you.”  

Reassuringly, Hannibal responds, “You won’t.” 

“Where do I start?”   

“Start at the edge closest to my spine. The skin is not as torn there.”

"Okay."

“Now, angle the needle so that the curved edge goes through the skin, towards the opening of the wound. You can use the stitches on my abdomen as guide posts for your own.”

  Will shifts so that he can look one last time at the stitches Hannibal has already placed, and then he closes his eyes, committing the pattern to memory.

  Opening his eyes once more, he places the tip of needle so that it is touching the skin, but before he can dig in, Hannibal says, “Move it further from the wound, just a small adjustment. Too close and you risk tearing through the skin.”

  “I really feel like I should be practicing on something.”

  “Typically, animal parts are used for that purpose, but we have none of those on hand.”  

“There’s always the dead body in your front yard.”  

“Rigor mortis will have already set in.” 

“I should have thought of that.”  

“Your mind is otherwise occupied.”

  Will moves the tip of the needle as Hannibal directed, and says, “Is this better?”

  “It is.”

  “Now what?”

  “Puncture the skin, going down about a quarter of an inch, and then bring it up through the open side of the laceration.”  

Will inhales and holds his breath, as he follows Hannibal’s instructions.  

“Good. Now angle the needle so that it goes under and then comes back up through the skin on the opposite side. You want to make the line across the wound as parallel as possible. Try to come out at the same distance as you went in.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want lidocaine?”

  “I’m sure. Now do as I’ve instructed.” 

Once Will has brought the needle through the skin, Hannibal says, “You will close the stitch with a surgeon's knot. Do you recall how I did that?”   

“Yeah, tying knots I can handle.”  

Once Will has closed off the stitch, Hannibal says, “Use the scissors to trim the excess thread. Leave about half an inch on each end.” 

Will lets out a sigh of relief as he says, “One down.”

  “Only four more to go.”  

“It’s a good thing bullets make smaller entrance wounds than a knife.”

  “Fewer stitches for you to place?”  

“Exactly.” 

Will thinks for a moment, before adding, “I guess the bigger favor would be the Dragon’s good aim.”  

“Because he missed any vital organs?”

  “Yeah.” 

“What leads you to believe that was by design?” 

Hannibal already knows the answer, of course, but he wants to hear Will say it, wants to watch Will put himself into the mind of the Dragon.

At least for the moment, Will is willing to oblige.

 “He wanted you to die slowly. If he hit an artery or a lung or your heart, you wouldn’t died too quickly. And if he went for a head shot, you might have ended up unconscious or at least nonverbal.”  

“That would certainly have spoiled his film.” 

“Yeah, it would have.” 

“Then that is yet another thing we can be grateful for.”

  “I’ve never been a big fan of gratitude. It always seems so forced.”  

“There are some people who believe a daily gratitude practice is the key to our happiness. It’s used as a therapeutic tool by certain clinicians.” 

“It’s been a long time since I expected to have a happy existence.”

  “Even with your wife and her child?”

  “ _Our_ child. And yes.”

  “Then what was the point in being with them?”

  “I loved Molly and Walter. I felt like I could be a good husband and a good father.”

 “Do you realize that you're already speaking about them in the past tense?”

  “It’s easier that way.” 

“If you were not happy, then it seems like it shouldn’t be hard to leave that life behind.”

  “I wasn’t unhappy. I was content, most of the time, but that's not the same. Happiness is light and pure. I feel dark, stained, tainted. It’s hard to imagine I’ll ever be happy—not the way other people are.”  

“You will never be like other people. You never have been.”  

“I know.”

  “I consider that to be a good thing.”  

“I don’t see it as good or bad. Not any more. It just is.”

“That’s a very balanced way of viewing the situation.”

  “I don’t feel very balanced.”  

“How do you feel?”  

Will chokes out a laugh at that familiar question.

“You shouldn’t make me laugh when I have a needle shoved into your skin.”  

“I trust you. And I wasn’t trying to make you laugh.”  

“I know. It just feels like we’re back in your office.”  

“Is that a good feeling or a bad one?”  

“It’s familiar.”  

“Familiarity is a double edged sword. It can be a comfort or it can be a prison. What is it for you?”

  “For now, I guess it’s more comfort. Recently, everything has felt foreign to me.”

 “Since the Dragon? Or before?”

  “Both.”

“When was it that you last experienced that comforting sense of familiarity?”  

Will waits to respond as he ties off the last stitch.  

“All done.”

Hannibal shifts so that he can see his back in the mirror on the wall.

“Your work is admirable considering your lack of experience."

“Is that a polite way of saying I did a shitty job?”  

With a slight edge, Hannibal says, “I would never say that.”

  “I know. You find swearing to be distasteful.”

  “I do.”

 Hannibal’s tone shifts from stern to warm, as he adds, “And I was not implying that you did a bad job. I’m impressed and grateful for your efforts.” 

Hannibal turns so that he is facing Will, before saying, “Now, are you purposely avoiding my question?”

  “Which question was that?” 

“I asked when you last felt that comforting sense of familiarity.”  

Will searches his memory, shifting through events and emotions.  

“Everything that happened after you—after I—”

Will closes his eyes and steadies himself.

“When I woke up in the hospital, scarred and alone, I felt like the world had taken on a different shape and color. Everything felt alien. After what happened in Europe, after Muskrat Farm, I learned to adjust. I became accustomed to the strangeness, but it never felt familiar.”  

“What about the time before those events?”

  He closes his eyes once more, rewinding the tape, retracing his steps. 

Eyes still closed, Will says, “It was when I came to your home, after I kissed Alana.” 

“A lot of time has passed since then.”

  “Yeah, it has.” 

“What was it about that moment?”  

Will notices the subtle shift in Hannibal’s tone and says, “You seem surprised.”

 “I am. At that point, you were already slipping into the profound sense of alienation brought on by your work.”  

Wryly, Will says, “And the encephalitis that you helpfully ‘treated.’” 

With good humor, Hannibal responds, “Now you see why I was not destined to be a surgeon.”

  “Because you prefer killing people to healing them?”

  “Because I dislike being hemmed in by the confines of what is considered good medical practice.”  

The smile that was on Hannibal’s face disappears, replaced my his psychiatric mask.

“Tell me, Will, what was it about that moment that makes it stand out in your mind? As I recall, you seemed agitated and disoriented when you showed up at my door.”  

“I was. But it was one of the few times that I had somewhere to go—someone to go to—when I felt that way.”

“Familiarity can be a sea of comfort in the midst of a storm.”

  “I guess so.”  

“I'm interested to hear what else you remember about that night."

“I remember feeling lost. When Alana came to my house, I had just finished demolishing part of my chimney, trying to find the source of that sound, the animal, that was calling out to me.”

  “When did you first start to consider that the noise was only present in your head?”

  “The question was always there in the back of my mind. I think that’s why I was so desperate—I needed to know for sure—whether—”

  “Whether you were hallucinating?” 

Will nods in confirmation. “I felt like I was slipping, losing my grip on reality, and I couldn’t find anything to hold on to.”

  “Do you recall what exactly made you decide to come to me?” 

 “I don’t know that I really thought it through. Alana ran out, and I couldn’t be alone—I had to talk to someone, I couldn’t stay trapped in my own head.”

  “And so you drove all the way to Baltimore.   What comfort did you find, when you showed up at my door?”  

“You always seemed so calm, like nothing could touch you. That was comforting. And I knew that I could tell you everything that had happened, and you wouldn’t look at me with fear or pity.” 

Will pauses, continues filtering through his memories of that night.

 “When I got to your house, I almost didn’t come in. It wasn’t until I was sitting in my parked car that I realized I was about to barge into your house, unannounced, late in the evening.”  

“But you came in anyway.”

  “It was either that or go home again.” 

“Were you afraid I would reject you?”

  “You’re too polite to do that.”  

“I've always considered it rude to turn away a friend in need.”

With a slightly embarrassed smile, Will says,   “I was certainly needy."  
  
"I would have described you as vulnerable more than needy."  
  
"Did that make you want to help me or crush me?"  
  
Hannibal gives Will a curious look.   
  
"Uh, that just reminded me of something—"

Will stops, not sure that he's ready to broach the topic of his sessions with Bedelia. 

Uncharacteristically, Hannibal seems willing not to push Will for clarification. Instead, he says, "I wanted to contain the madness that I saw burning inside of you. I wanted to control it."  
  
"You wanted to control _me_."  
  
"No, only the monster I saw growing inside you. I may at times take pleasure in manipulation, but I equally enjoy observing your pure, uncontrolled reactions."

Will frowns, slightly, trying to grasp the many layers hidden in those sentences. But his thoughts are interrupted when Hannibal says—

"I believe we've wandered away from our initial topic."  
  
"You mean familiarity?"  
  
"Yes. I still am interested to hear what struck you about that moment."  
  
"I've always found it difficult—challenging to be around other people. Usually, if I feel anxious or vulnerable, I want to get away from everyone else."  
  
"Like a wounded animal."  
  
"Now you see why I only ever live with dogs."  
  
Will feels a sharp pain in his chest as he thinks about his pack, only understanding now that he has no choice but to leave them behind. The pain is so fresh that he quickly tries to bury it, and so he turns his attention back to the topic of their conversation.

"That's why it stuck out so clearly in my memory. Standing around in your kitchen, sitting at your table—it felt so natural, like this was something we did every day.” 

The edges of Hannibal's mouth turn up slightly, as he says. "And now it can be."

Will answers with a slight smile of his own, before saying, “What do you remember about that night?”  

“I remember being surprised to find you at my door.”  

“A good surprise or a bad surprise?”

  “Seeing you is always a good surprise.”

  “Even when I held a gun to your head?”

  “Even then.”

  “You must really like me.”  

Will’s comment is made in jest, but Hannibal is completely serious when he says, “I do.” 

Before Will has a chance to respond, Hannibal adds, “I also felt gratified that you thought to come to me.”

  “I thought you might have felt put out. I did interrupt your dinner.”

  “My dinner was already interrupted. And you were a much better companion.”

  That last comment reminds Will of a long unanswered question from that night. “Who were you eating with?"

“Who do you think?”

  “How would I—” 

Will stops because the answer hits him before he can finish that thought.  

“Tobias Budge.”  

“Tobias was my guest of honor, before you took his place.”

  “Were you planning on killing him, if I hadn’t shown up?”

  “I was.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have interrupted you. At least your patient would still be alive.”

  “Are you referring to Franklin? He would have died, one way or the other.”  

“Just by your hand instead of Tobias’s?”

  “He did die by my hand.”

  “Oh.”

  “Does that surprise you?”  

“No, it doesn’t. I just hadn’t thought about it. That was before.”

  “Before you began to suspect me.” 

“Yeah.”

  It suddenly occurs to Will to ask, “How did you feel, when I told you I kissed Alana Bloom?”

  “Are you turning the tables, Will? Trying to subvert my role as a psychiatrist by using my lines against me?”  

“I was just curious, actually.”  

Hannibal allows the silence to stretch out for several minutes, before he says, “I felt a certain amount of jealousy—an emotion that I must admit is rather foreign to me.”

  “I always assumed you slept with her because you wanted to manipulate her, maybe use her against me, not because you had genuine feelings for her.”

“I have always liked Alana and respected her. But I did not feel jealousy over her.”

Will pauses, trying to parse the meaning of that phrasing, before saying, “You felt jealous—jealous of Alana? Because _I_ kissed her?”  

“You found yourself in need of connection, and you turned to her. I was less interested in the method than the fact that you were driven to do so.”  

“Well, she was there. You weren’t.”

  “But then you sought me out.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

 “You said you were unaccustomed to having a place of retreat, someone you could turn to. Was that always the case?”  

“My father—he was never good at dealing with emotions, even worse at talking about them. I think he could barely handle his own feelings, after my mother left. There’s no way he could have handled mine, especially not the way I felt things.”

  “Was there no one else?”

  “I didn’t have any other family, at least no one that I knew. His parents—my grandparents—were both dead. He didn’t talk to his brother—my uncle. They hadn’t spoken in years, long before I was born.” 

“I remember you saying that you didn’t have many friends growing up.” 

“We moved around so much, that I didn’t really have _any_ friends. Although I don’t know that it would have made a difference, even if we had stayed in one place.”  

“I imagine you found it challenging to interact with your peers.”  

“Challenging doesn’t even begin to describe it.”  

“You must have felt incredibly isolated. Unable to relate to your father—”

  “I could relate to him, just not like that. He would take me fishing. I would help with the boats. But he always preferred doing over talking.”

 “That’s not unusual, for men of his generation.”  

“Yeah, especially men who grew up poor in the South.”

  “Do you think it would have made a difference if you had a female influence in your life?”

  “Possibly, but I don't—I try not to think about it. I don’t see the point.”

  “It would be perfectly understandable if you occasionally found yourself dwelling on how things might have been different had your mother not abandoned you.”

 His tone is contemplative, when Hannibal adds, “I wonder if part of your attraction to Alana originated from a desire to find a replacement for your absent mother.”

  “That’s very Freudian, Dr. Lecter.”

 “Freud posited that a repression of our sexuality was at the root of all psychic distress. I’m not suggesting that. I’m simply wondering if you were drawn to Alana because she called out to a part of you that never stopped desiring the comfort that a stable maternal influence might have had.”

  Hannibal waits for Will to respond, but when no response is forthcoming, Hannibal elaborates.

  “Alana was protective of you. She cared about you, deeply, and she cared about your wellbeing. At a time when Jack was pushing you towards the brink, she was always there, trying to stop him. Unlike your father, she wasn’t afraid of your emotions, and she did not suppress hers.”

  Hannibal pauses, and then adds, “And yet, like your mother, Alana eventually abandoned you, in spirit if not in body.”

  “When she started sleeping with you and was convinced that I was a killer?”  

“Yes. How did that make you feel?” 

“At first, I was angry, and then—then I just felt resigned. And then I didn’t feel anything.”

  “You had let your feelings for her go.”  

“I guess I did.”  

Hannibal is staring at Will, intently, as he says,  “Do you feel that I abandoned you?”

  Caught off guard by the question, Will's only response is to ask, “When?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I asked. Perhaps when I framed you for my crimes?”

  “I felt betrayed by you, I felt angry—I felt a lot of things, but abandonment was pretty far down on that list of emotions.”  

“What about after, when I left for Europe?”  

There is a slight hint of a long buried anger in Will's voice when he says, “You didn’t just leave for Europe. You dangled Abigail in front of me and then killed her as I watched, and then you left me for dead.”

  “I never intended to kill you.”  

“That doesn’t really make much of a difference. But to answer your question, I guess I did feel you abandoned me—both of us.” 

“You and Abigail?”  

Will nods.  

“Did you ever give serious thought to going with me, as we were planning our escape?”  

“A part of me wanted to. After I woke up in the hospital, I used to lie in bed and think about what it would have been like—if we had gone away together, if I hadn’t betrayed you, if you hadn’t killed Abigail. I would go to sleep, thinking about it, about you.”  

“I’m sorry I took Abigail from you, but that is one action I can’t undo, as much as I might want to."

  Hannibal’s pauses, gauging Will's response, before adding, “But now we have the chance to try the road that was not taken. We can leave together.” 

His voice is more serious when he asks, a moment later, “Do you think you will ever truly forgive me?”  

“For what?”

  “For taking Abigail from you, among other things.”  

“I—I don’t know that it’s a matter of forgiveness. I don’t know if I can ever extinguish the emotions attached to those memories, but I guess I’ve found a way to live with them.”

  Hannibal is staring at Will with an impossible to decipher expression. 

“You once asked me if we were even. I believe ‘even-steven’ was the phrase you used.”

“I remember—after you sent Randall Tier to kill me.”

 “And after you sent Matthew Brown to kill me.”

Hannibal pauses, and then asks, “Where do we stand now?”

Will contemplates the question for a long time, before he finds an answer.  

“I think we’re past the point where we can be even. I’ve done too many things to you, and you’ve done too many things to me. I wouldn’t know how to account for everything. How can I weigh you sawing into my skull against the fact that you saved me from having my face cut off and carried me 40 miles through the snow?”

 “You can’t, just as I can’t weigh your attempts on my life against your actions to save mine.”

 “You mean with Mason and his murder pigs? Or with the Dragon? Those were both equal parts self defense.” 

“Perhaps. But you have saved me, Will, in ways that you may never be able to see. But I will always see them and remember them.”

Once again, Hannibal allows his fingers to ghost over the gash on Will’s face. “And this mark will be one more reminder of that fact.” 

“Is that your way of saying you aren’t going to eat my face off while I sleep?”  

“If I wanted to kill you, I could have done so already.”

  “Yeah, but you wouldn’t, not like this. You would wait until you could kill me and take your time doing it. You would want to enjoy it—to luxuriate in the entire experience. You’d probably take out my kidney and serve it to me on a silver spoon.”

  “And yet, of the many promises you extracted, you did not ask for my word that I would not eat you.”  

“It felt wrong, somehow, to ask.”  

“You do not have to ask. I promise you, Will, wherever our journey takes us, your life will not end by my hands, and your flesh will never pass my lips.” 

Hannibal pauses, before adding, “Unless of course, that is something you desire.”

  “I don’t want you to eat me. I’m confused about a lot of things, but not that.” 

“There are many ways to devour someone that do not involve a fork and knife.” 

“Are you making a pass at me, Dr. Lecter?”

  “Trust me, Will, if I ever decide to seduce you, that is not a question you will have to ask.” 

Unable to settle on a response to Hannibal’s statement, Will says, “Aren’t you going to ask me whether I plan on killing you?”

  “No. To do so would violate the promise I’ve already made.”  

“How?”

  “You enjoy killing—I have seen the passion it incites in you. But you will never enjoy killing for its own sake. You can only delight in justified murder. Therefore, you would only kill me if you felt it was justified—if I were killing again. As long as I keep my promise, I know that you will not make another attempt on my life.”

Suddenly seeming energized, Hannibal stands up and says, “Now, it's time for us to set the stage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ran a bit long (4,000 words, give or take) but I just can’t stop writing dialogue. Also, I really wanted to get to that last bit of dialogue, specifically the, “Are you making a pass at me, Dr. Lecter?” line. I just love to imagine Hugh Dancy saying that. Incidentally, I’ve decided that post season 3, Will is using “Dr. Lecter” as a sort of term of endearment. Just fyi.
> 
> I know, at this point you may be thinking, almost 13,000 words and they still haven’t gotten out of this darn house. (I wonder if that’s some sort of record for post season 3 finale fics?) Well, in the next chapter, appropriately titled, “Setting the Stage,” we’ll finally find out how Will and Hannibal make their escape. Hannibal definitely has a few tricks up his sleeve.
> 
> This chapter ran a bit long (4,000 words, give or take) but I just can’t stop writing dialogue. Also, I really wanted to get to that last bit of dialogue, specifically the, “Are you making a pass at me, Dr. Lecter?” line. I just love to imagine Hugh Dancy saying that. Incidentally, I’ve decided that post season 3, Will is using “Dr. Lecter” as a sort of term of endearment. Just fyi.
> 
> One final disclaimer: I’m not any sort of medical professional, but I did do some quick research (thanks wiki!) and watched a couple of youtube videos on how to suture. I’m sure it’s not completely accurate, but I wanted to make it accurate and detailed enough that I could write a scene where Hannibal coaches Will through stitching him up, mostly because I feel like there's something very sexy about surgeon!Hannibal. But, um, don’t try that at home.
> 
> Okay, sorry for this ridiculously long author's note. I look forward to hearing what you guys thought of this chapter :)


	5. Setting the Stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, more than 2,500 hits and almost 250! And that’s not even to mention the wonderful feedback I’ve been getting from your comments! I’m so thrilled that you guys are enjoying this story, even with the lack of smut.
> 
> I planned on getting this chapter posted a little earlier, but then I ended up adding in some more dialogue (what else is new) and filling in some additional details. Hopefully an extra 1,000 words is a fair trade off for a couple days delay.
> 
> Now, onto Chapter 5 :)

Once they’ve finished tending to the worst of their injuries, Hannibal disappears into one of the bedrooms, returning a moment later, carrying a stack of clothing.

Hannibal hands Will a few items of clothing from the top of the pile and says, “You can change in the guest bedroom if you prefer to dress privately.”

Will raises his eyebrows slightly at the implication that he would have a preference for not dressing privately, although he keeps those particular thoughts to himself. 

Before Will can leave the room, Hannibal adds, “Do you want assistance putting on your shirt?” 

Will’s immediate reaction is to brush off the help, but before he can reject the offer, Hannibal has already closed the space between them, taking the clothes out Will’s hands.  

As Hannibal arranges the shirt, stretching out the right sleeve to ease it over Will’s injured shoulder, Will says, “So was that a rhetorical question?”  

“It’s rude to dress or undress someone without asking their permission first.”

  “But it’s not rude to go ahead and do it without them saying yes?”

  “I realize that you’re not in the habit of accepting help, so I made the decision for you.”

Will studies Hannibal’s expression. “You enjoy this don’t you?”

  “What do I enjoy?”

  “Me, needing your help. Or anyone needing your help.”

  “I do. Why do you suppose that is?”

  “So now you’re asking me to psychoanalyze you?”

  “Your approach is to empathize not to analyze. You apply yourself to another perspective and draw your conclusions.”

  “How is that different from psychoanalysis?”

  “They’re alike in many respects, but I would define psychoanalysis as dissection in the interests of discovery. We pursue lines of inquiry to get at a deeply held truth locked within our psyches, much like an autopsy. Your gift allows you to embody a person's perspective, and in doing so, you come to know them.”

Will’s shirt is now on his body thanks to Hannibal’s assistance, although Hannibal takes an extra moment to adjust the it to his satisfaction, smoothing out a few wrinkles, and pulling down the hem, before stepping back. He looks at Will in the same way that an artist might survey a finished painting, and Will finds himself growing uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

Returning his focus to Will's face, Hannibal says,   “Now, tell me, what do you see when you apply yourself to my perspective?”  

“You thrive on power and control. You would love nothing more than to have everyone under your influence. You demand fealty, not just in action, but put into words. It’s why you only agreed to cooperate with The Plan when I came to ask you for help. You wanted me to need you, and you wanted to hear me give voice to that need."

Hannibal smiles subtly, an echo of the same expression he had during that very conversation. "You seemed more than willing to prostrate yourself before me. I enjoyed it very much." 

"Yeah, I noticed."

  Will pauses, searching his brain for an association that’s forming in the back of his mind. 

Latching on to that connection, Will says, “You’re not the Devil, and you’re not God, at least not the God of the Judeo-Christian tradition. You’re more like one of the gods that ruled Mount Olympus. Powerful, at times merciful, more often cruel.”

Hannibal is clearly pleased with that comparison. “What specific god would I be?”  

“I don’t remember enough about Greek mythology to say.”  

“I have several books on the subject. Maybe you could do a little research on the matter. I’m interested to hear your analysis. But for now, you should change. Unless you need further assistance.”

  “I can dress myself.” 

“You know, Will, you don’t have to need help in order to want it.”

  Will focuses on Hannibal's face, trying to detect the underlying meaning to those words. Hannibal stares back at him, intently, until Will looks away, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. With his eyes focused on the wall behind Hannibal's right shoulder, Will says, “I’ll, uh, just be a minute.”

After changing his clothes, Will steps into the hallway to find Hannibal, now fully dressed, waiting for him. 

With a hint of skepticism Will says, “Do you actually have a plan for how we’re going to pull this off?” 

 “As I said, we will make it easy for Jack to tell the story that they wish to tell.”  

“What story is that, exactlty?” 

“When the FBI arrives, they will find our blood and the Dragon’s all over the ground.”

  “And a crime scene that's two bodies short. ” 

“Not if we give them their two bodies.” 

Before Will can respond, Hannibal says, “Come, I’ll show you.”  

With curiosity and a little apprehension, Will follows Hannibal to the end of the hall. Hannibal opens the door on their left, revealing a small utility room with a very large freezer.

With a subtly pleased look, Hannibal turns to Will and says, “Open it.”

Will gives Hannibal one last dubious glance before following the instructions.

Inside the freezer, there are two corpses, standing upright, wrapped tightly in clear packaging.

“Did you vacuum pack them?”

  “It’s the surest method to avoid freezer burn.” 

Sarcastically, Will says, “I suppose you know that from first-hand experience.”  

“We are made of meat and matter just like any other animal. Now, help me carry them out into the living room.”  

Together they bring out one body at a time, depositing them on the living room floor, and then Hannibal uses a pair of kitchen shears to cut off the clear wrap that surrounds them. 

Will looks down at the shorter of the two corpses and says, “Is this my shirt?”

  “Yes.”

“Where— _when_ did you take it?”

  Offhandedly, Hannibal says,  “Don’t worry, I can buy you another one when we reach France.” 

“That doesn’t actually answer my question.”

“What question was that?”

  Will looks down at the corpses and then back at Hannibal, and specifies, “When did you do all this?”

  “Five years ago.”  

“You mean when we—when I—”

 Will trails off, fumbling for the words, distracted by the inscrutable expression on Hannibal’s face. 

“Yes, when we were supposed to leave together. I thought it might be convenient if we ever needed to stage our own death.” 

Will breaks away from Hannibal’s stare as he bends down to examine the corpses more closely, “The height, weight, and ages match, but it will take more than that to fool Jack, even if he’s inclined to believe whatever story we’re helping him tell.”  

“I know. There’s a hammer in the utility room on the top shelf. Go get it.”

  Anticipating the question already forming in Will’s mind, Hannibal adds, “I’ll explain after you retrieve the hammer.” 

When Will has complied with Hannibal’s directive, he hands him the hammer and waits expectantly for an explanation.  

“I’m going to smash the teeth. When I’m done, the FBI will find dental records to be of very little value.”  

As he forcefully smashes the teeth belonging to Will’s doppleganger, Hannibal adds, conversationally, “Normally, I would have extracted the teeth, but that would seem too intentional. With this method, the FBI may conclude that the Dragon simply beat you until all of the teeth in your mouth were destroyed.”  

Will closes his eyes, listening to the rhythmic banging, imagining the Dragon beating his head over and over against the large rock outside. 

He opens his eyes when the sounds suddenly cease. Hannibal is already standing up, heading into the kitchen to start packing supplies.

“What about the other one?”

“I assume you have dental X-rays on record. I don’t. Although I do apologize for depriving you of the opportunity to hammer all the teeth out of my head." 

Ignoring that last comment, Will says, “You don’t go to a dentist?”

  “I did, but not for several years. I suspect Alana couldn’t find anyone willing to consent to that task. And the records of any previous dental work I had done are conveniently inaccessible.” 

“How can you be sure of that?” 

 Hannibal gives Will a knowing look, before saying, “Because I killed my former dentist and destroyed all the records.” 

A moment later, Hannibal adds, “And then I ate him, of course. It would have been rude to let him go to waste.”

“More rude than killing him?”   

“He was not a particularly skilled dentist. More to the point, in his personal life, he was an absentee father who went to great efforts to avoid providing for his three children and their mother, his former wife. After his death, they received a sizable inheritance and a very substantial payout from his life insurance policy.”

Sarcastically, Will says, “That was very philanthropic of you.”  

“Philanthropy is rarely my primary concern. He also made for a very delicious main course at one of my dinner parties.” 

That turn in their conversation leaves Will feeling slightly sick so he quickly changes the subject.

“What about fingerprints and DNA? They have all of that on record, for both of us.”  

“Those methods will be unavailable to them. We will take a page from the Dragon’s book and have a funeral pyre for ourselves.”

  “We’re going to burn the bodies?” 

“We’re going to burn the house and everything inside—our bodies, the Dragon’s. All of this will turn to ash.” 

Will starts to pace around the living room, while Hannibal continues packing supplies in the kitchen.

“Even if this works, how will we get away? Faked travel documents and passports won’t be enough.”

  Matter of factly, Hannibal says, “I know. Fortunately, we can sail away from here, avoiding the potential for detection that would come with any other means of escape.”

Hearing those words, Will stops his nervous movements.

 “Sail away? As in, on a boat?"

“It seems like a fitting choice. You told me your father worked on boats, and I know you to be an avid fisherman. I remember seeing the occasional boat motor inside your home on one of my visits.”

  “That’s how I got to Europe the last time.” 

Hannibal stops his task and turns to face Will, asking with interest, “When you came looking for me?”

  “I’m still not sure what I was looking for, but yes.”

 “So you already know the way. Although I’m curious about your choice of transportation. Were you trying to escape from something, Will?” 

“I wanted to be alone. I needed time to think.”  

“Did you have any insights during your time at sea?”

  “Only that I could never really be alone.”  

“The dead were still haunting you, in your waking and dreaming life.”  

“You were haunting me, too.”

“And here we are again. We have come full circle, back to the moment of our imminent escape.”

  “So you bought a boat five years ago, just in case we needed it to run away?” 

Hannibal’s expression shifts, and there’s a quality to his tone that Will can’t quite place, when he says, “It was a gift.”  

“From a patient?”

  “I was not the intended recipient.”

 At Will’s blank stare, Hannibal elaborates.

 “I got it for you.”

  Will cannot identify the exact emotions stirred up by those words, and he doesn’t want to look closely enough at them to try. Instead, he asks, “Where is it?”

  “It’s at the dock, a few miles down the road, along a different route than what we took to get this place. We can drive there once we finish packing. It’s already stocked with some essentials: blankets, canned goods, water, basic first aid equipment. Whatever else we need for our journey can be found here.”

“But it’s been there, untouched for three years. It won’t be ready to sail.”

  “It has been maintained in my absence.”  

“How could it possibly—”  

“That is a story for another time. And I do believe we will have plenty of time to share these tales when we’re out at sea.” 

“So that’s it? We set the house on fire, jump on a boat, and sail across the Atlantic.” 

Will pauses, before adding, “We might still need travel documents, when we get to France.”

  “Fortunately, passports have a long expiration date. I took the liberty of acquiring them for us when I first planned for our departure. Under false names, of course.”

  “You really thought this through."

  “I did. After all, I was planning on us leaving together, even if you weren’t.”

  “At a certain point, I wasn’t planning anything. I was just doing.” 

“Since your plans start with mail drops and personal ads and culminate in throwing us off a cliff, perhaps it’s for the best that you allow me to do the planning.”  

Hannibal's expression makes his amusement clear, and Will finds himself reflexively echoing that sentiment, as he says, “Yeah, maybe it is.” 

When Hannibal returns to his task, Will suddenly feeling uncomfortable just standing around doing nothing. “So what do you need me to do?”

“There is some more items of clothing in the guest bedroom. You will find them in the dresser and hanging in the closet. They should be your size.”

“You bought me clothes?”

“How else would I have provided the clothing you’re currently wearing?”

  “I didn’t really think about it.”

 Will pauses, and then adds, awkwardly, “Uh, thank you?” 

“You don’t have to thank me. I’ve long awaited the day when I could supplement your rather inadequate wardrobe.”  

There are so many things Will could say in response, but he decides that this is one more conversation better saved for another time, so he heads to the bedroom to pack. 

Hannibal is sorting through medical supplies in the living room when Will calls out—

“Hannibal?”

  “Yes, Will?”

  “What is this?”  

Hannibal turns around to see Will come out of the bedroom, holding a jumpsuit made out of clear plastic. Will has it at arm’s length, and he’s looking at it with an uneasy curiosity.

Matter of factly, Hannibal says, “That’s my murder suit.”

  He pauses, and then clarifies. “My back up murder suit. Presumably the FBI confiscated the one I kept in my home.” 

 Looking at it with disgust, Will says, “I won’t be sorry to see this burn in the fire.”  

“Maybe we should take it with us. It might come in handy.”

  Giving Hannibal a sharp look, Will says, “You mean if we decide to go on a killing spree?”  

“We could put it to other uses as well.”  

Will doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he grabs a trash bag, stuffs the ‘murder suit’ inside, and then drops it unceremoniously onto the floor.

When Will has once again left the room, Hannibal quietly removes the murder suit from the trash bag, rolling the suit up as tightly as possible before burying it inside a box of medical supplies.

Just as Hannibal has finished concealing it, Will emerges once more from the other room carrying a duffel bag filled with clothes.

“What else should I do?”

“Why don’t you carry what I’ve already packed out to the car. I have to retrieve my own clothing and toiletries from the master bedroom.” 

Will brings the bags out to the car, one by one, careful not to put too much strain on his right shoulder. As he’s depositing the final bag in the car, Hannibal emerges from the house, carrying an additional bag which he puts in the back seat.

Turning to face Will, he says, “Help me pull the Dragon into the house.”  

They each grab one of the arms of the corpse and slowly drag it inside. Hannibal carefully arranges the body so that it is close to the window, as if the Dragon had tried and failed to escape the blaze.

Looking around the room, Will says, “Is that everything?”

Hannibal points to the firearm lying on the floor, where it had fallen during the struggle.

“We might find it convenient to bring your gun."  

Will doesn't respond immediately, finding the idea to be discomforting in away he can't quite pin down.

  Studying his expression, Hannibal says, “You don’t trust me.”

  “Trust doesn’t come easy to me—and I don’t exactly distrust you. I just—” 

He's not entirely sure how to finish that sentence, so he doesn't try.

Hannibal is quick to concede. “We can leave it behind. We will be in close quarters for some time, and I don’t want to heighten your anxieties.”  

Suddenly coming to a decision, Will says, definitively, “No, we should bring it with us. We might draw attention to ourselves if we try to get a gun in France.”  

“Then we'll compromise. I will hold onto the bullets, and you can hold onto the gun.”  

“Okay, that seems fair.” 

Hannibal gestures for Will to pick up the gun, which he does, taking out the bullets which he gives to Hannibal. 

As Will tucks the gun into the waistband of his pants, Hannibal goes to the kitchen and picks up two large knives. 

In response to Will’s curious look, Hannibal explains, “For our finishing touch, we should decorate our dopplegangers with a few marks of our own. Given the Dragon’s injuries, it would seem improbable for us to have escaped completely unharmed.” 

“Will they really be able to tell after the bodies are burned?”  

“It’s a simple enough precaution to take.”  

Hannibal hands Will one of the knives, handle first, as he says, with a slight smirk, “Why don’t you take care of my corpse while I do yours.”

Will watches as Hannibal kneels down on the carpet, staring at the body appraisingly before lifting the knife above his head and stabbing the abdomen of the corpse, several times.

 When Will continues to stand, motionless, Hannibal looks up and says, “I believe it’s your turn. You might consider breaking a few bones in the interest of verisimilitude.”

 “Is this really necessary?”  

“It is. If you need inspiration, consider putting yourself in the mind of the killer.”  

“Didn’t you kill them?” 

 “I did. But now you must be the killer, as well. Imagine how you would do it. Or, if it’s easier, simply re-imagine one of the many fantasies you had about killing me."

 Will gives Hannibal one more skeptical look, and then he closes his eyes. Instead of letting the pendulum swing, he rewinds his mental tape, to the moment when he first felt someone’s life bleed out of his hands.

 He goes back to Randall Tier.

“I drop my weapon on the ground. This calls for something intimate, personal.”

He lifts up his foot, and then slams it down onto the corpse’s ribcage, putting all his weight into the motion. The sound of bone cracking echoes in the room.

 “I break your ribs first. I want you to feel this pain with every breath.”

Will kneels down, picks up the head of the stiff corpse by its hair, and then he beats it against the floor, once, twice—with great force. 

He reaches over, picks up the knife, and stabs the corpse in the shoulder, echoing his own injury.

Then he flips the body over, stabs it once, twice, three times, in the back.

He stands up again, and kicks the corpse so that it’s once again lying on its back. He steps back several paces before launching himself onto the body and stabbing the blade of the knife through the center of the corpse’s throat.

 “Was that your design, Will?”

Breathing heavily, slightly flushed, still straddling the corpse, the knife lodged in the dead body, Will looks up at Hannibal for the first time.   “Did I say all of that out loud?” 

“You did.”  

Will stands up, stiffly, massaging his now very sore shoulder.

Hannibal comes to his side, and replaces Will's hands with his own. Will has already become so accustomed to Hannibal's presence that he doesn't even tense at the contact, allowing the skillful motions of Hannibal's fingertips to gently release the tension.

Even as he relaxes under Hannibal's care, he still says, skeptically, "Was this really for ‘verisimilitude’? Or did you just want to watch me beat up your corpse?”  

“Why couldn’t it be for both reasons?”  

As Will contemplates those words, Hannibal stops the motions of his hands and steps away. He opens the cabinet under the kitchen sink and picks up two red canisters filled with gasoline, one of which he hands to Will.

“Pour this around all three bodies and then the rest around this room. I’ll take care of the rest of the house." 

Once all the gasoline has been used up, Hannibal grabs a box of matches from a drawer and motions for Will to follow him out of the house.

“We should go outside before we start to blaze. We wouldn’t want to confuse the FBI by leaving behind 5 bodies when they were only expecting three.”

Once they are outside, standing in front of the open window—shattered earlier in the struggle with the Dragon—Will takes in the scene and says, “I can’t decide whether this is the best or the worst decision I’ve ever made.”  

“You may find both to be true.”

 With those words, Hannibal hands one match to Will, takes out one for himself, and says, “Now, it’s time for us to burn.”

Simultaneously, they strike their matches and throw them through the open window, into the house.

The blaze immediately roars to life, and they move back several yards, out of the flames reach.

The sun is just beginning to rise, but there is still a gray haze covering the world, which only makes the light from the fire all the more striking, as the silhouette of the flames makes patterned shadows on their skin and the courtyard.

Will watches, entranced, as flames engulf the house. While Will’s gaze is focused on the burning house, Hannibal is watching Will’s face carefully.

“How does it feel to count yourself among the dead?" 

Will contemplates his response, before saying slowly, “I feel free.”

“Then let us be free together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter was somewhat lacking in Hannigram slow burn-y moments, but they had to get out of that darn house sooner or later, and one of my goals for this story was to try to come up with an at least somewhat plausible scenario for their survival and escape (well, plausible by TV standards).
> 
>  But have no fear! They’re about to sail across the Atlantic in a small boat, so there will be ample opportunity for Hannigram goodness to come. In the mean time, we got some violent murder-y fantasies, and a Murder Suit cameo appearance. (For some weird, twisted reason, I really love Hannibal’s murder suit. I’m surprised it didn’t already have it’s own tag.)
> 
> Chapter 6 is titled “At Sea.” It’s about half written so far. It should have some good Hannibal slow burn, as well as a few other fun tidbits, like what they end up naming the boat, because apparently every boat has to have a name. (I know nothing about boats, sailing, etc, but I’ve been doing some research.) And in case you were wondering, no, I don’t plan on devoting the next 25,000 words to narrating their entire trip across the Atlantic. Just the really good bits :) Although considering the fact that I only expected to spend about 3,000 words getting them onto the boat, maybe I shouldn't make any promises. 
> 
> I’m not sure when exactly the next update will be, but I’ll do my best to get it posted sooner rather than later. My approach to writing this fic is rather different than anything else I’ve written. Usually with multi chapter fics, I have everything else pretty well plotted out, and then I write various parts of the story as the mood strikes me, and then I fill in the gaps.   For this story, I’ve got some things planned out, but for the first time, I’m actually writing every chapter in order, which I think is allowing the story to develop more organically. It’s also probably the reason why it’s taken me 15,000+ words to describe events that unfolded over a period of roughly eight hours. 
> 
> Okay, this author’s not is getting to be obscenely long, so I’ll just close by saying once again how much I appreciate any and all feedback, so please feel free to share your thoughts on the story so far! I love hearing what you guys have to say :)


	6. Setting Sail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in getting this posted. I had to do a lot of research about boats and a bit of research about human anatomy for…well, you’ll see in the next chapter ;) I also accidentally ended up writing a brand new Hannigram two chapter fic set between Digestivo and The Great Red Dragon. First chapter is Will POV. Second chapter is Hannibal POV. First chapter will probably go up soon, but I wanted to get this out first.
> 
> On another note, while trying to fall asleep one night, I was thinking about Hannigram, as I so often do, and I realized that I sort of overlooked something in the last chapter. Hannibal and Will hopped into the Dragon’s car all bloody when they first got onto dry land, so their DNA is now all over that car. Even if they didn’t know who stole what car, it still might give the FBI too much to go on.
> 
> However, I try not to make major story changes after the fact, so let’s just say that before driving off to go find the boat, they left the Dragon’s car right by the house, windows open, hood up, so that it could get good and burned up as well. Maybe they threw a few lit matches inside the car for good measure. Or threw one match into the gas tank and ran away very very quickly. (We’ll see how they deal with the other police car in this chapter.)
> 
> Okay, enough with this author’s note. On to the chapter!

As soon as they turn away from the burning house, Will finds himself seized by a vague restlessness mixed with uneasy anticipation, and he has to actively stop himself from fidgeting nervously as they drive down from the high cliffs to the shore. 

While they drive in silence, Will can't help but get swept up in his thoughts, thoughts that are running in many directions, simultaneously. Thoughts about how the FBI might discover them at any moment or that any moment now he might wake up and realize this is all a dream.

But there’s also a hum of excitement that’s palpable and stands out against the backdrop of all his other fears. It feels surreal, after all this time, after denying himself for so long, to be here, in this place, with Hannibal, preparing to run away together.

As they approach the shore, the sun is hovering over the horizon, the gray haze now replaced completely by early morning light. Once the dock is in view, Will’s focus immediately shifts from his swirling thoughts to the scene in front of him, the one lone sail boat moored at the dock, the bright light of the sun reflecting off of the white hull, nearly blinding in its intensity. 

As soon as the car is in park, before Hannibal has a chance to turn off the ignition, Will jumps out of the car, quickly making his way to the dock to get a closer look at the boat.

By the time Hannibal has gotten out of the car, Will has hopped onto the deck, examining the riggings and the cockpit, leaning over the side to run his hand along the hull.

For several minutes, Hannibal stands on the shore, a pleased expression on his face as he watches Will explores the boat with an almost child-like exuberance, his injuries and concerns seemingly forgotten.

Eventually, Hannibal interrupts Will’s exploration by saying, “Is everything satisfactory?”  
  
Will looks startled, as if he forgot that Hannibal was even there. However, a moment later, he comes back to himself and says, with feeling, “It’s perfect.”  
  
“I’m glad you think so. The broker assured me that this would be an exceptional and highly seaworthy vessel.”

Will runs his hand along the boom as he says, “My father worked on Hallberg-Rassey boats a few times. He spoke very highly of them, although the boats he worked on were usually twenty years old. This must have been almost new when you got it.”  
  
“Brand new, actually.”

Will’s eyes narrow slightly. “A brand new Hallberg Rassey, and it's what, 40 ft, maybe a little less? It must have been expensive. Really expensive.”

Matter of factly, Hannibal says, “Cost was not my concern. And it’s impolite to discuss the cost of a gift with the recipient.”

Will steps down from the deck onto the dock and walks over to Hannibal.  

When he's standing so that they're facing each other, Will says, quietly and with sincerity, “Thank you, Hannibal. It’s beautiful.”

And then, after a moment’s hesitation, Will takes another step forward and embraces Hannibal, lightly, mindful of both their injuries.  
  
The contact is brief, and then Will steps back again, looking vaguely embarrassed.  
  
For his part, Hannibal says, simply, “You’re very welcome.”  
  
Then, he adds, “Help me carry the bags onto the boat.”

It doesn’t take long for them to bring their belongings onto the deck, and with that task completed, Will says, “We shouldn’t just leave the car here, not so close to the dock.”

“I have very little faith in the deductive reasoning of the FBI, but I agree it’s an unnecessary risk. The wisest and most expedient option would be to drive it back towards the bluff, not far, just far enough.”  
  
“That makes sense.”  
  
“I hesitate to divide up our tasks, but I don’t want to risk delaying our departure any further. I can dispose of the car while you make preparations here.”  
  
Will doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stares at Hannibal’s face, examining him closely, before seeming to come to a decision.

“Let me deal with the car. It won’t take me long to drop off the car and run back here.”  
  
Before Hannibal can respond, Will grabs the keys from Hannibal’s hand and makes his way to the car.

  
  
  
  
  
  
True to his word, in very little time at all, Will comes back into sight, jogging down that same road. 

When Will gets to the edge of the dock, he stops and bends over at the waist, bracing himself with his hands gripping the tops of his thighs.  
  
After taking a minute to catch his breath, he stands up straight again and looks up at Hannibal, who is currently standing on the deck, looking down at Will appraisingly.

“You should be careful exerting yourself. You're hardly in peak health.”  
  
Still sounding slightly winded, Will says, “I used to run cross country—in high school—but I guess I’ve lost stamina since then.”

Will walks over to the end of the dock, and Hannibal extends a hand to to help pull Will up onto the boat.

When they are both standing on the deck, Hannibal says, “I never took you for the ‘organized sports’ type.”  
  
“Cross country isn’t exactly organized.”

Will pauses, before adding, “My dad thought that if I got ‘involved’ with something at school I might finally make friends.”  
  
“And did you?”  
  
“No, but I was fast. It probably helped that I wanted to get as far away from everyone else as possible. That was a pretty good incentive.”  
  
Studying his face, Hannibal says, “I can see why you might have enjoyed it.”  
  
Abruptly changing the subject, Will says, “What’s left to do?”  
  
“I’ve brought everything down below and unloaded the most important items.”  
  
“I meant with the boat. Have you checked the riggings? The rudder?”  
  
“I was planning on leaving all of that to you.”

As if the thought just occurred to him, Will asks, “Do you actually know how to sail?”  
  
“I did some reading on the subject before purchasing this boat, but I’m primarily relying on your knowledge of the art.”  
  
“What would you have done if I hadn’t left with you?”  
  
“I wasn’t going to leave without you, Will. I already did that once, and I had no intention of doing so again.”

When Will doesn’t say anything in response, Hannibal adds, “Do you need my assistance with your preparations?”

Will is already busy checking and adjusting the ropes and cables connected to the mast, and it takes him a moment to register Hannibal’s question.

“No, I can handle this.”

“Then I’ll continue unpacking."  
  
  
  
  
  
 

Hannibal is unloading the last of the first aid supplies when he hears a very loud _Shit_ shouted from above.  
  
He sets the bandages he's holding down on the counter and quickly makes his way back up to the open air of the deck.

When he emerges, he sees Will standing beside the main sail, bent over slightly, his face drawn tightly, his left hand gripping his right shoulder, a cable attached to the sail laying forgotten at his feet.

“You should have let me help you.”

“I didn’t think I needed help. I guess I was wrong.”  
  
“How often that seems to be the case.”  
  
Will scowls at Hannibal’s chiding tone, but Hannibal’s next words are softer, no longer reprimanding, as he says, “I’m here now. Let me help you.”  
  
Even though his thoughts are partially clouded by pain and exhaustion, some more lucid part of Will finally becomes aware of the dramatic shift in their relationship. In the past—even just twenty four hours ago—Hannibal would have made Will ask, maybe even beg, for help, but now, Hannibal is pushing Will to accept his aid.

Keeping that in mind, Will allows his demeanor to soften as well. “I was trying to hoist the main sail, but I keep forgetting how useless my right side is.”

Hannibal moves closer so that he’s standing just a few inches away from Will. Wordlessly, he undoes the top few buttons of Will’s shirt, and then moves the material out of the way so that he can examine the wound.

“Isn’t it rude to undress someone without their permission, Dr. Lecter?”  
  
Obliquely, Hannibal says, “The rules of good etiquette are specific to a person, time, and place.”

While Will tries to discern the meaning of those words, Hannibal carefully lifts up the edge of the gauze covering the laceration, and says, “Fortunately you didn’t tear any of your stitches.” 

Hannibal presses the gauze back down gently and then quickly re-buttons and arranges Will’s shirt.

With that task completed, Hannibal steps back and says, “I have ice packs in the freezer. As soon as we’re done here, I’ll get you one. An anti-inflammatory may help as well.”  
  
“Thank you. And, yeah, I could use your help with this.” 

"I'm happy to help, but you will need to instruct me."  
  
Will leans down and picks up the rope he had previously dropped. He hands it to Hannibal and says, “You’ll pull this rope to raise the main sail. When the sail gets too heavy, we can use the winch to finish raising it up.”

Hannibal does as Will instructs, pulling the rope up almost effortlessly, until Will says, “That’s good.”  
  
Hannibal pauses, still maintaining the tension, and awaits Will’s next directive.  
  
“That’s the winch.”  
  
Will points to a black metal protrusion attached to the side of the boat, underneath the sail.  
  
“Wrap the rope around there, in the groove, three times.”  
  
When Hannibal has done so, Will inserts the handle into the top of the cylinder, and says, “You can use this to turn it the rest of the way. I’ll tell you went to stop.”  
  
Hannibal nods in acknowledgement, before complying with Will’s instructions.  
  
“Stop there.”

Hannibal lets go of the handle and steps back, looking up to see the main sail now standing taught, flapping lightly in the wind.

Will has a smile on his face as he says, “That’s the first time I’ve ever gotten to order you around.”  
  
Hannibal returns the smile. “There’s a first time for everything.”  
  
Looking over at the second sail, yet to be raised, Hannibal says, “And perhaps a second time. Is there anything else that needs to be done?”  
  
“We’ll raise the jib in a minute, when we’re ready to go. Uh, the jib is the other sail.”  
  
“I know. As I said, I did some reading on the subject.”  
  
“That was five years ago.”  
  
“I have an excellent memory. Still, there’s only so much you can learn from a book. The rest you’ll have to teach me.”  
  
Will pauses, and looks to his left, in the direction of the house. “I keep thinking I hear sirens.”  
  
“My hearing is almost as good as my memory, and I have not heard them yet. Still, we would do well to leave here as soon as possible. I was planning on giving you a brief tour of the living quarters before our departure, but perhaps that should wait.” 

“Yeah, I’ll feel better once we’re out of sight of the bluff.”  
  
“Have you made all the necessary preparations for the boat?”  
  
Will nods and says, “There wasn’t much to do.”  
  
Hannibal studies Will, carefully, noticing the way he seems to be shifting nervously. “You seem uneasy. Perhaps you’re having second thoughts.”  
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever done anything in my life without having second thoughts. And third thoughts and fourth thoughts.”  
  
“You should trust your instincts. They rarely lead you astray.”  
  
“My instincts told me to push us off a cliff.”  
  
“I said rarely, not never.”  
  
Will smiles slightly, at that. 

Then, Hannibal adds, “But perhaps even in that your instincts were working in our favor. Although I would have preferred a series of events that didn’t involve us being plunged into the Atlantic, we both appear to have escaped without lasting harm. It’s impossible to say what may have transpired had we taken a different course, but I do not regret that we ended up here.” 

Will doesn’t respond at first, but eventually he says, “I keep thinking any minute the whole world is going to melt away, and I’m going to realize this is a dream.”  
  
“This is not a dream, Will.”  
  
“That’s the funny thing about dreams. You can never really be sure.”  
  
“I imagine your dreams are rarely this literal or devoid of supernatural horror.”  
  
“True, but there's just something so unreal about all of this. I feel like it's inevitably going to fall apart."  
  
"We can never be sure of the future, but there's no reason to assume this will fail."

"It just seems like any time something good happens, it’s always followed by something terrible. I can’t shake the feeling that any minute, all of this is going to implode.”  
  
“So your anxiety is not about the course ahead of us. It’s about the course being disrupted.”  
  
Will nods, slightly.  
  
“You’re not alone anymore, Will. Whatever happens, we will get through it together. I think you’ll find we make a good team.”  
  
“You mean when we’re not actively trying to destroy each other?”

“Yes, that is what I mean. And this is a fact which will be very advantageous now that we are about to launch our transatlantic voyage.”  
  
Hannibal pauses, and then adds, “Before we depart, there’s one last thing we have to see to.”  
  
“You mean raising the jib?”  
  
“I meant naming the boat.”  
  
“You haven’t done that yet?”  
  
“This was my gift to you, Will. That was my intention when I purchased it five years ago, and it is just as true now.” 

Will looks off towards the horizon, thinking, before he says, slowly, almost reluctantly, “I would have named it Abigail.”

“You could still name it after her.”

Will shakes his head, adamantly. “You got this boat for me. I don’t want to name it after the worst moment of our relationship.”  
  
“Then we will name it something else.”

Hannibal waits patiently, until Will eventually says, “Lucy.”  
  
Hannibal tilts his head slightly and looks at Will with intent curiosity. “I’ve never heard of there being a Lucy in your life.”

Will looks slightly sheepish. “She was my first dog.”  
  
Spurred on by Hannibal's intent expression, Will elaborates, “I was eleven, and we had just moved to a new town in the middle of the school year—again. I was small and scrawny for my age, awkward, poor. I didn't really have friends, so I would spend hours just wandering around by myself in the woods. I don’t think my father knew what to do with me.”

“You must have been very lonely.”  
  
Will shrugs and says, “I was used to it. And one benefit of not having any friends is that I didn’t miss them when we moved. But I did miss Hunter.”  
  
At Hannibal’s curious look, Will clarifies, “Hunter was this black lab that belonged to our neighbors in Biloxi. They let me come over and play with him all the time. I hated that I had to leave him behind when we moved.”  
  
Will fidgets unconsciously with the rope hanging down from the sail, as he says, “My dad and I didn’t really talk about it, but I guess he must have picked up on something, because one day, I came home from school, and he had this big smile on his face, and he told me to go to the backyard, and there she was.”  
  
“Lucy.”

“She was probably the best thing that could have happened to me as a kid. I still spent a lot of time wandering around in the woods, but I wasn’t alone because she followed me wherever I went."

Will smiles slightly at the memory, before adding, “One time, I was walking in my neighborhood, and I ran into a couple of kids from school. They were pushing me around, taunting me, but then Lucy started growling and barking at them like at rabid devil hound. Scared the shit out of them. Everyone left me alone after that.”

“I can only hope Lucy the boat keeps you as safe as your canine companion did.”

Once again making eye contact, Will says, “Thank you, Hannibal, for doing all of this.”  
  
“It is and was my pleasure.”  
  
Turning away from Will, towards the mast, Hannibal says, “Now, tell me how we would go about raising the jib sail.” 

“It’s just like the main sail. Pull on the rope, then wrap it around the winch, and go up the rest of the way.”  
  
As Hannibal begins to raise the sail, he says, “I’ve often found that animals are far better companions than our fellow man.”  
  
“I never took you for an animal person. Or at least not a _live_ animal person.”

“I respect animals far more than I respect most people. That doesn’t prevent me from eating them.”  
  
Suddenly curious, Will says, “Did you have any pets, growing up?”  
  
“Not a pet, but my family had a horse, Caesar.”

“That doesn’t count as a pet?”  
  
“A horse has a one thousand pound advantage over a person. They are faster and more powerful than any human. There is no ownership with a horse. They accept you or they don’t. It’s a partnership.”

“Did you learn how to ride?”  
  
“I did, but not on Caesar. He was a draft horse—used mostly for pulling carts.”

“I always wanted to learn, but we couldn’t afford lessons. We did live pretty close to a farm when I was 14 so I would sneak in at night to visit the horses. I tried to take Lucy with me, but she made too much noise.”

“I think you would enjoy riding.”  
  
“Probably. Actually, I tried to teach myself, once.”  
  
“Did you?”

“One night, when I had snuck onto the farm, one of the horses was grazing by the paddock fence, so I climbed up on the rail and hopped on.”  
  
“How did your impromptu riding lessons turn out?”  
  
“It lasted about 2 seconds, and then I was back on the ground. I was sore for days. And that’s the closest I’ve ever come to learning how to ride.”  
  
“Perhaps it’s for the best that you didn’t take lessons there. Western riding is a relic from the barbaric days of the American frontier. True horsemanship is found in the English disciplines. Many believe dressage to be the height of equestrian skill.”  
  
“I don’t really know what that is.”  
  
“It’s beautiful, like a dance between horse and rider. German and Dutch warmbloods are often favored for the sport. Perhaps we can go to an event some time.”  
  
Hannibal is silent for a moment while he finishes raising the jib sail. Then, with that task completed, Hannibal steps back from the winch and says, “Now I think it’s time for us to set sail before Uncle Jack catches up with us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it took me 20,000 words just to get them on the boat. What can I say, they're very chatty. As you may have noticed, I changed the title from what I originally said it would be in my Ch 5 author’s note, since they didn’t actually make it to the sea in this chapter. I guess I should probably just stop making predictions about story progress.
> 
> I had hoped to get this chapter out sooner, but I have gotten a fair amount of writing done for the next couple chapters, so hopefully I can get back to weekly updates. I also brainstormed a few additional plot developments that I’m really excited about, so we'll get to those, um, eventually.
> 
> Anyway, I have a few notes about a couple things that come up in this chapter:
> 
> Caesar the draft horse comes from Harris’s Hannibal Rising novel, although he was named “Cesar” in that book. Incidentally, Horses are the one thing I actually know a lot about, and although I do English riding (hunter/jumpers) mostly, I don’t subscribe to Hannibal’s take down of Western riding. It just seemed like something he would say.
> 
> Now, onto a matter I know pretty much nothing about: Sailing. Here are a few things I learned while researching how to sail:
> 
> Hannibal and Will are using what is called a “monohull” sailboat (vs a multihull) which seems to be favored by a lot of people for transatlantic sailing (or “blue water sailing” seems to be the common term for open ocean sailing). If you want to get an idea of what their boat would look like, check out this link:
> 
> http://www.hallberg-rassy.com/yachts/aft-cockpit-boats/372/
> 
> I probably spent way too much time trying to decide on exactly which boat Hannibal would purchase, but for various reasons, I chose that one. Also, I’ve decided that Hannibal is made of money, so he would have no issue dropping $300,000 to $400,000 (USD) on a boat for Will. Of course, Hannibal likes his creature comforts, especially a good kitchen, or at least as good as you can have on a 37 ft boat. Only the best for Hannigram! 
> 
> If you want to brush up on sailboat terminology, you can check out this page:
> 
> http://www.schoolofsailing.net/terminology.html
> 
> And here are a couple of other resources I used for my boating research:
> 
> http://www.sailboat-cruising.com
> 
> http://sailing.about.com/od/learntosail/a/Learn-How-To-Sail-A-Sailboat.htm 
> 
> https://youtu.be/5byPfsCmd8M (This is a youtube video for how to raise a main sail)
> 
> I’m sure I may have butchered some descriptions in this chapter, and I can’t promise I’ll do a perfectly accurate job of describing things in future chapters, but I at least wanted to go for a bit of authenticity. If anyone knows anything about sailing, feel free to chime in with corrections.
> 
> Wow, this note is absurdly long. If anyone actually made it through this whole thing, I salute you. And of course, to all of you who have read the story and left kudos and comments, I'm eternally grateful :)


	7. At Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned in my last author’s note, their boat is a Hallberg-Rassy 372. I already linked to the [main page](http://www.hallberg-rassy.com/yachts/aft-cockpit-boats/372/) for the boat, but here are a few links to specific shots, particularly of the interior, that I think may make it easier to follow and visualize what’s going on in this chapter. It’s a beautiful boat, isn't it? Hannibal has such good taste ;)
> 
> [Smaller sleeping berth](http://www.hallberg-rassy.com/fileadmin/images/gc_gallery/hallbergrassy372interior/HR372aftcabinPeterSzamer.jpg)  
>    
> [Larger berth](http://www.hallberg-rassy.com/fileadmin/images/gc_gallery/hallbergrassy372interior/HR372vacabin3873Stoss.jpg)
> 
> [Kitchen+living area](http://www.hallberg-rassy.com/fileadmin/images/gc_gallery/hallbergrassy372interior/HR372saloon3882Stoss.jpg)
> 
> [Toilet+shower ](http://www.hallberg-rassy.com/fileadmin/images/gc_gallery/hallbergrassy372interior/HR372wc-shower.jpg)
> 
> [Exterior shot](http://www.hallberg-rassy.com/fileadmin/images/gc_gallery/hallbergrassy372exterior/HR372sailing5.jpg)
> 
> [Cockpit](http://www.hallberg-rassy.com/fileadmin/images/gc_gallery/hallbergrassy372exterior/HR372sailing2.jpg)  
>    
> (I literally just realized we could use html in the author's note, so hopefully there aren't any issues with the hyperlinks. I probably should have realized this forever ago.)
> 
> Okay, now time for the chapter!

As the shore gradually recedes from view, Will feels himself finally begin to unwind, his strung out muscles and pounding heart gradually relaxing as they leave land behind and make their way towards the open ocean. 

Once they have the boat set on the right course, Hannibal says, “Now I believe it’s time for a tour of the living quarters.”

As they go down the stairs and enter the area below the deck, Will takes in the decor and accommodations.

“This is really nice. A lot nicer than what I had the last time I made this trip.”

“I’ve always believed in the power of form and function. We’ll be spending a very long time together on this journey. It seemed important that we both be as comfortable as possible.”  
  
With those words, Hannibal takes several brisk steps forward until he reaches the kitchen area.

“As you can see, we have an oven and a two burner gas range as well as an icebox. It’ much smaller than what I’m accustomed to, but it should be more than adequate during our time at sea.”  
  
“I’ll do us both a favor and leave the cooking to you. I’m better with manual labor.”

“Yes, you are the proverbial man in this relationship.”  
  
Will raises his eyebrows slightly at Hannibal’s phrasing, but he doesn’t have a chance to respond because Hannibal quickly returns to his narration, continuing the tour of the living quarters.

“Over here, in the combining dining and living area, there are two sofas on either side of the dining table which can double as day beds. Through that door, there’s a toilet and shower. As for our sleeping accommodations, there's a berth with the smaller bed by the bow, and the larger one which sleeps two by the stern.”  
  
Turning back to Will, Hannibal asks, politely, “Which would you prefer?”

“You should take the larger one. I won’t be getting much sleep anyway. I didn’t the last time.”  
  
“You’re no longer on your own, Will.”  
  
“Only one of us knows how to sail a boat.”

“You will find me to be a quick learner. And the autopilot is more than adequate, I’ve been assured.”

“Someone still needs to keep watch, make sure we don’t get mowed down by a ship in the middle of the night.”

“That is a duty we can share.”

With genuine curiosity, Hannibal adds, “How did you manage when you were alone?”  
  
“I slept in fifteen minute increments.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound particularly restful.”  
  
“At least it kept the nightmares away—most of the time.”  
  
“Perhaps we’ll find another way to rid you of your nightmares.”

With a touch of bitterness, Will says, “I’m not holding out much hope for that.”  
  
A moment later, he adds, “Did you bring ear plugs? Because if we are ever asleep at the same time, you’ll need them, especially if you’re a light sleeper. Heck, you may want them even if you're awake.” 

“You’re concerned your nightmares will wake me.”  
  
“I’m sure they will.”

“I would prefer to have my sleep interrupted than to know that you’re suffering alone.”  
  
“Suffering alone is my specialty.”  
  
Lightly, Hannibal says, “You can find a new specialty now.”

“Like what?”  
  
“That remains to be seen. But since we’re both casting aside our old ways—murder for me, suffering for you—perhaps we can find a new specialty together.”  
  
With slight skepticism, Will echoes, “Perhaps.”

Changing the subject to more immediate concerns, Hannibal says, “I haven’t unpacked your clothing yet. I thought you might prefer to do that yourself.”

At the mention of his belongings, Will says, “Oh, I almost forgot. I got you something.”  
  
“I can’t help but wonder when you would have had a chance to do that. Unless you obtained this present before we decided to set out together. In which case, should I expect something with lethal intentions?”

A smile tugs at the corner of Will’s mouth, almost despite himself, as he says, “No, nothing like that. I got it—well, I sort of stole it.”

At Hannibal’s curious look, Will specifies, “From the house—your house. For you.”  
  
“An interesting method for procuring a gift.”  
  
“It’s not really a gift. It’s—I’ll just get it.”  
  
Will goes to his bag, opens the top zipper, pulls out a rolled up T shirt, and shoves it in Hannibal’s general direction, carefully avoiding eye contact.

With an unreadable expression, Hannibal accepts the bundle and sets it on the kitchen counter before carefully unwrapping it to reveal—

“A teacup, whole and unmarred.”

Will runs his hands through his hair nervously as he tries to find words to explain himself. “I just—I thought that even if the teacup can’t come together again—maybe it doesn’t have to. Maybe we can start over.”  
  
A moment later, not giving Hannibal a chance to respond, Will says, “I know. It’s stupid.”

“What is it that they always say about gifts? It’s the thought that counts.”  
  
“That’s just a polite way of saying something is a crappy gift.”  
  
“In some cases, that may be true. But in this particular instance, I appreciate the thought behind this very much.”

Hannibal picks up the teacup from the counter and allows it to balance carefully in the palm of his hand.

Watching the light reflect off of the porcelain, Hannibal says, “Do you remember our first discussion of teacups?”  
  
“You mean when you confessed to regularly breaking them so that you could test some bizarre theory about quantum mechanics?”  
  
Hannibal smiles, just slightly, betraying his amusement at Will’s summary of that particular conversation, before specifying, “Actually I was thinking about an earlier discussion.”  
  
Will searches his memory until he recalls, “The second time we met, when you showed up at my house.”

“Yes, exactly.”  
  
“You said that Jack saw me as a fragile little teacup, to be used only for special occasions. And then you compared me to a mongoose.”  
  
“How far we’ve come since then. ”  
  
“It feels like a lifetime ago.”  
  
“In a way, it was.”

Hannibal turns to the shelf over the oven which already has several cookbooks stacked one on top of the other. He picks up one of the larger hand towels and folds it in half several times, before setting it down in the open space on the shelf. He then carefully nestles the teacup on top, making sure it’s not in a position to fall or be crushed.

With that task completed, Hannibal turns back to Will and says, “We were always meant to be together, like this. I knew we would find our way back here eventually.”

Will manages to maintain eye contact for several long seconds, mirroring Hannibal’s pleased expression, before he starts shifting uncomfortably and has to break away.

Searching his mind for a change in subject, Will is struck by a question that has been nagging at him.

“Are you finally going to tell me how you had this boat ready and waiting for us?”

“You might say I have a guardian angel.” 

Not bothering to hide his skepticism, Will says, “A guardian angel?”

“You may remember her from the time she pushed you out of a moving train. Or the other time when she shot you.”  
  
Incredulous, voice slightly raised, Will says, “Chiyoh? Chiyoh is your guardian angel?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Why is she willing to do all this for you? You left her in a prison of your making, and now she does whatever you want her to do?”  
  
“I did not imprison Chiyoh. I gave her a purpose. When you conspired to have her kill the prisoner, you robbed her of that purpose.”

“I set her free.”  
  
“And for that I’m grateful. Now she can go on to bigger and braver things.”  
  
“By doing your bidding?”  
  
“It’s never my bidding that she has done. Or rather, it’s not for me that she has done it.”  
  
“Then who is she doing this for?”

“Whom, not who, technically.”

At Will’s confused expression, Hannibal clarifies, “For _whom_ is she doing this. It’s the objective case. Also avoids that pesky preposition stranded at the end of your question.”

Rolling his eyes, Will says, “No one talks like that.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Are you seriously giving me a grammar lesson right now? Or are you just dodging my question?”  
  
“I’m not dodging it.”

Hannibal pauses for several seconds, but eventually he says, “She is doing this for Misha.”  
  
“Your sister?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Will pauses, hesitating, before he finally asks, “What happened to her, Hannibal?”  
  
“That is a tale for another time."  
  
Breezily changing the subject, Hannibal adds, "But for now, it’s time for breakfast.”  
  
Will doesn’t fight the change in subject, although he does express his lack of interest.

“I’m not hungry.”  
  
“Nevertheless, you need to eat.”

Hannibal pauses, narrowing his eyes slightly as he takes in Will’s tired expression, and says, “You look dead on your feet. Perhaps you would like to take a nap, while I prepare our meal.”  
  
“No, I’m okay.”  
  
“Maybe later then. I would ask you to sous chef, but I think it best if you rest your shoulder. If you don’t start taking better care of your self, I might have to put you in a sling.”  
  
“Shouldn’t you be resting?”  
  
“I have no need for sleep right now. I’m feeling energized and full of life.”  
  
“That must be nice.”  
  
“It is.”  
  
“Aren’t you in pain?”  
  
“I’m in some degree of discomfort.”  
  
“Discomfort sounds pretty mild.”  
  
“There are a number of factors that affect our perception of pain that go far beyond the physiological. During times of great stress, when the adrenaline is pumping, the brain is capable of pushing aside even excruciating pain. Conversely, the brain will, on occasion, amplify or even invent pain signals that are not rooted in physical stimuli.”  
  
“I guess our brains can make us believe almost anything.”  
  
“Such as your waking nightmares.”  
  
“Among other things.”

“There have been many cases in the literature of what is called ‘phantom pain.’ A person who loses a limb may continue to feel pain in that limb even when it is no longer there.”

“Are you implying that I’m in pain because my brain is playing tricks on me?”

“I was speaking in a general, academic sense. There are physical factors which also play a role, particularly the presence or absence of nerves capable of carrying signals of pain from the peripheral to the central nervous system. In this particular instance, there are far fewer nerve endings at the sight of my injury. I’ll demonstrate.”  
  
Hannibal walks over to Will, positioning himself directly behind him. He then asks, “May I?”

Will isn’t sure what Hannibal is asking permission to do, but he gives his consent anyway, “Yeah, uh, sure.”  
  
Hannibal’s reaches out and allows his fingers to lightly trace along the edge of Will’s spine as he says, “The brachial plexus emerges from the portion of the spinal cord that runs through the C5, C6, C7, C8 and T1 vertebrae.”  
  
Hannibal punctuates each location by applying gentle pressure at each vertebra as he speaks. 

Then, he allows his fingers to move left along Will’s back, as he continues to narrate, “The brachial nerves pass through the clavicle region in the neck, and then underneath the axilla, at the joint where your shoulder and arm connect. It separates into several branches that enervate the rest of your arm such as the radial and ulnar nerves.”

As Hannibal steps away and returns to his spot on the opposite side of the kitchen counter, Will says, “So is that why it hurts so much?”  
  
“Like I said before, it’s one of many reasons. But in general, outside of certain anomalous conditions, your brain will only sense pain when there is a means to detect the sensations.”  
  
“So if no one’s around when the tree falls, it doesn’t make a sound?”  
  
“Metaphorically speaking, yes. In the literal sense, sound waves will travel through the air whether or not someone is there to register them. The sound is there to be heard even if no one is listening."

Amused, Will says, “Would you like to answer the chicken and the egg riddle next?”  
  
“The egg came first, of course. A chicken only came into existence because it evolved from some other pre-existing bird. The genetic recombination which would have produced the first chicken took place at its conception. Ergo, the egg was created, and from that, hatched the chicken.”

“You must have been a real buzzkill if you talked like this at your dinner parties.”

“I don’t think any one found me to be a ‘buzzkill’. Of course, you would know this if you had ever attended one of my dinner parties.”

“Too many people. I would have made everyone uncomfortable.”  
  
“I would have been happy to have you.”  
  
“To have me as a guest? Or to have me for dinner?”  
  
“If I had eaten you, Will, I would never have served you to my guests. You’re far too precious for that.”  
  
With a hint of sarcasm, Will says, “I bet you don’t talk like that at your dinner parties either.”  
  
Enigmatically, with a slight upturn of his lips, Hannibal says, “You’d be surprised.”

Then, more seriously, he adds, “But here, in this moment, you’re not my guest, nor am I yours. We are equals, jointly sharing the same space.”  
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about someone being your equal.”  
  
“There are very few people who are.”  
  
“So I should be flattered?”  
  
“You should be. Are you?”  
  
Will waits to answer, genuinely contemplating the question, before saying, “I think I am, but right now I’m too tired to feel much of anything.”  
  
“A nap would do you good.”  
  
“I’m not prepared to face whatever my brain will conjure up the next time I close my eyes.”  
  
“You will have to sleep eventually.”  
  
“I know. I’m trying not to think about it.”  
  
“Then we will move on to other subjects. Like breakfast. But first, let me get you an anti-inflammatory and an icepack for your shoulder. Perhaps another for your face. I imagine the local anesthetic has begun to wear off given that you seem to be taking great pains to only speak from the left side of your mouth.” 

“There’s not much that escapes your attention, is there?”

“I’ve always been very observant, and since our first meeting, you’ve been one of my favorite subjects to observe.”  
  
“I’m just grateful you’re trying to heal my injuries for once, not make them worse.”  
  
“We have both caused the other great pain. I’m happy to move past that, now that we're in this new stage, where the teacup is made whole.”

With those words, Hannibal opens the door to the ice chest and pulls out one large and one small ice pack. He wraps each one in a hand towel before setting them down on the counter. Then, he opens a drawer filled with first aid supplies and pulls out a bottle of ibuprofen.

Carefully shaking out the pills into Will’s hand and then his own, Hannibal says, “Two for you, and two for me. I’ll get you some water.”  
  
“Don’t need it.”  
  
With those words, Will tosses both pills into his mouth and swallows them dry. 

After pouring himself a glass of water and taking the pills, Hannibal turns back to Will and says, “You don’t have to sleep, but I would encourage you to lie down. I could use a bandage to secure the ice pack to your shoulder, but it will not be so easy to do this with the one on your face, and you don’t need to tire your good arm by holding it.”  
  
“Yeah, okay. Just don’t let me fall asleep.” 

“You should not deny your body if it needs rest.”

Stubbornly, Will says, “My body’s waited this long. It can wait a little longer.”  
  
“We will continue to make conversation then, while I prepare our food. Now lie down there. I’ll fetch you a pillow.”

Hannibal inclines his head in the direction of the sofa on the opposite side of the kitchen counter.

Without argument, Will stretches out, laying his head down on the pillow that Hannibal gives him.

He positions himself so that he can watch Hannibal’s movements in the kitchen, and as Hannibal begins to take out his cooking equipment, Will says, “What are you going to make?”

“I was thinking a simple sausage and egg scramble.”  
  
“Like the first breakfast you made for me.”  
  
“Yes, much like that.”

Once again, Will thinks back to that day, the first time they sat together for a meal. Suddenly hit with a rather sickening thought, Will chokes out, “What’s the sausage made out of?”  
  
“You still don’t trust me.”  
  
“It may take awhile for me to trust your cooking.”  
  
“It’s pork sausage. See, it’s still in the original wrapper, unopened.”

Hannibal shows Will the packaging, shrink wrapped, supermarket label on the outside.  
  
“But we could go vegetarian, if you prefer.”  
  
“No, sausage is fine.”

For several minutes, neither man speaks, the silence punctuated by the sounds of Hannibal working in the kitchen. Eventually, Will gathers up the courage to ask for an answer that he’s not sure he event wants to hear.

“Hannibal?”  
  
“Yes, Will?”  
  
“What was— _who_ was the sausage made from the first time?”

“Do you really wish to know?”  
  
“I need to know.”  
  
“Knowledge is a dangerous and powerful thing.”  
  
“Just tell me.”  
  
“Cassie Boyle.”

They once more lapse into silence, Hannibal quickly and efficiently chopping ingredients as Will stares out into space. 

When he shifts slightly, causing the icepack to slip off of his cheek and onto the floor, Will doesn’t immediately pick it up. Instead, he lightly traces the edges of the wound on his face and says, “I take it there are a lot of nerve endings in the face too?”

“Yes, there are.”  
  
Almost unconsciously, Will’s hand moves from his face to his abdomen, where his fingers trail along the path of the sickle shaped scar hidden underneath the fabric of his shirt.

“If there aren’t many nerve endings in the abdomen, why did it hurt so much when you disemboweled me?”  
  
Hannibal stops mid motion at those words. His face is unreadable as he sets the knife down, wipes off his hands, and says, “There are more nerve endings along the central axis of the body. Equally as important, our skin has many sensory nerve endings capable of carrying pain signals to our brain with ease and precision.”

Will is silent except for the sound of his slightly labored breathing. Hannibal walks around the kitchen counter so that he’s standing in front of the sofa, looking down at Will whose eyes are clenched tightly shut, the fingers of his right hand digging into his midsection. 

Without opening his eyes, sensing Hannibal’s proximity, Will says, “Why did you do it? Why did you give her back and then take her away again?”  
  
“I wanted you to feel my pain—the pain of your betrayal. You gutted me, Will, and so I returned the favor.”

Still clutching his stomach, Will opens his eyes and looks up at Hannibal, neither of them blinking, Hannibal’s expression sharp, focused, unreadable, in stark contrast to Will, who is looking up with wide and wild eyes, pain and betrayal written in every line of his face. 

Desperate for an answer to a question long buried, but always hovering below the surface, Will bites out, hoarsely, “But why did Abigail have to die?”

Will breaks eye contact, looks down at the floor as he adds, quietly, “Why couldn’t you have just killed me instead?”

Hannibal lowers himself down so that he’s kneeling on the floor in front of the couch that Will is stretched out on.

“A place was made for Abigail in a world where all three of us could leave together. You shattered that world, and the teacup along with it.”

Will closes his eyes, his head resting back against the pillow once more, his body going limp.

In a tone that is just barely louder than a whisper, Will says, “That was the most painful moment of my life. It was so much worse than losing her the first time.”

Leaning forward slightly, Hannibal asks, “Are you remembering now?”  
  
Will nods, jerkily.

“What do you remember?” 

Eyes still shut, Will sifts through the memories in his mind, images, emotions, and sensations that he had tried so hard to hide but never fully succeeded in burying. 

“I remember the pain as you ripped me open. I remember the feeling of blood gushing through my fingertips. I remember the warring desires—wanting to run away, wanting to cling to you, wanting to—”  
  
Will chokes slightly on the words, but manages to get out, “Wanting to kill you, for what you’d done, for what you were about to do. I remember every single word you said to me, exactly as you said them.” 

Will opens his eyes again, but still avoids eye contact, as he continues, “Being sliced open with that knife was nothing, nothing compared to the horror of that moment when I knew what you were about to do, knew that there was nothing—nothing I could do to stop it.”

In a voice that’s laced with bitterness, Will says, “You called her to you, and then you slit her throat. The surrogate daughter you claimed to love. You cut into her like a piece of meat. And then you walked out the door and left us lying in your kitchen, drowning in our blood, like we were nothing more than a couple of old, discarded, broken toys.”

Will directs his next question to the ceiling, still unwilling to make eye contact.

“Did you ever truly care about her? About either of us? Or were you just pretending? Was it all just part of some twisted plan?”  
  
“I was never pretending. I cared genuinely for Abigail, just as I cared—and still care—for you.”  
  
“But that didn’t stop you from killing her.”

“No it didn’t.”

Despite the pain it must be causing him—or maybe because of it—Will is still gripping his stomach tightly with his right hand, knuckles white, his arm visibly shaking.

Taking note of this, Hannibal slowly reaches out, first laying his hand on top of Will’s and then gently prying Will’s fingers away, breaking their stranglehold on the fabric and flesh. 

Holding Will’s hand in both of his, Hannibal gently massages the tissue, fingers moving in slow, precise circles in an attempt to loosen the spasming muscles.

Will doesn’t fight the contact, nor does he acknowledge it, continuing to steadfastly stare up at the ceiling.

When his ministrations are complete, Hannibal gently rests Will’s hand on the couch cushion.

Returning his attention to studying Will’s expression, Hannibal asks, “Do you care about me?”  
  
At first, Will doesn’t respond at, but eventually he says, almost despite himself, “Yes.”

“And yet you were prepared to let the Dragon kill me.”

Defensively, Will says, “I don’t know what I was prepared to do.”  
  
“You stood there and watched me bleeding out on the floor, just as I did to you.”  
  
With a hint of defiance, Will says,“I wasn’t the one who shot you.”  
  
“No, you weren’t. But the events you set in motion were responsible for my being shot.”

Feeling a surge of anger, Will sits up so quickly that the ice pack, still balanced precariously on his shoulder, is flung off his body and onto the floor.

“Why are you doing this, Hannibal? Or Are you trying to distract me from your transgressions by focusing on mine? Or can you just not go one day without fucking with my head?”  
  
Hannibal’s voice is neutral and even as he says, “That’s not my intention.”

“Yeah, well your ‘intentions’ can go to hell.”

Wanting to escape, to get away from the intensity of Hannibal’s gaze and the churning feelings in his gut, Will starts to stand up but Hannibal’s hand is there before he can get to his feet, pressing down on his thigh, urging him to sit back down.  
  
Too tired to fight, Will gives in, allowing himself to collapse back onto the sofa, although he doesn't lie down again. Instead he sits heavily against the cushion, allowing his head to rest against the wall as he takes deep gasping breaths. 

“Despite what you may believe are my intentions, I’m not manipulating you, nor am I trying to cause you more pain. I’m simply trying to help you understand.”  
  
Staring up at the ceiling once more, Will bites out, “Why?”  
  
“Because I believe that understanding my motivations as well as your own will help you finally find peace.”  
  
His tone plainly dismissive, Will shoots back, “Peace isn’t something I aspire to anymore.” 

Abruptly, Hannibal stands up, and Will watches out of the corner of his eye as Hannibal walks over to a cabinet built into the wall, opens a drawer, and pulls out a blanket.  
  
At Will’s questioning look, Hannibal said, “You’re shivering.”  
  
Wordlessly, Hannibal unfolds the blanket, and Will leans forward slightly so that Hannibal can wrap it around his shoulders.  
  
Quietly, Will mumbles, “Thanks.”

Once more crouching down on the floor in front of Will’s feet, Hannibal says, “Are you aware of the moment when you decided to intervene?”

“With the Dragon?”  
  
Hannibal nods in ascent.

“I didn’t decide anything, not really. There was just a moment, and in that moment, I knew that I couldn’t stand there and watch him kill you.”  
  
“And I’m very grateful for that. But what were you thinking in the moment before, when you had not yet decided to intervene?”

“I was thinking about everything you’d done to me. About how you tried to have Molly and Walter killed. About you sawing into my head. About Abigail.”  
  
“You were stoking the fires of righteous anger.”  
  
“Anger and anticipation of relief.”

"Relief that would come from my being dead."

Will looks away, but he nods, jerkily.

“So perhaps you understand.”

“I don’t feel like I understand anything right now, about you, about me, about any of this.”

“Humans are complex creatures. We can hold in our breast even the most wildly conflicting emotions. At times, we can push aside our hate and pull forward our compassion. At other times, we bury our empathy and drive ourselves forward on the sheer force of our rage.”

Comprehension finally dawning on him, Will says, slowly, “I tried to separate that part of myself, to focus on my hatred of you, but in the end, I couldn’t do it. Even after everything you’d done, I couldn’t let him kill you.”  
  
“You’ve always been at the mercy of your empathy. You can control it on occasion, even harness it when the situation calls for it, but you can not cut yourself off from it completely.”

“You can.”

“Yes, I can.”  
  
A moment later, Hannibal adds, “Or at least I could.”

Unable to hide his surprise at that admission, Will says, “You can’t anymore?”  
  
“I can, still, but there is no longer a solid, unshakeable barrier like there once was.”  
  
“What changed?”

“I’ve told you before, our actions and experiences change us.”  
  
“Killing alters our neurochemistry.”  
  
“Indeed, but not just killing. Compassion and love change us in different but no less powerful ways.” 

Will studies Hannibal’s face, trying to tease out the many layered meaning of those words.

After several long minutes, when neither of them speaks and neither of them moves, Hannibal leans over, picks up the discarded pillow, and places it back on the couch. 

He then picks up the blanket that has slipped off Will’s shoulders and says, in that gently commanding tone, “Why don’t you lie down again.”

Without argument, Will allows himself to sink down onto the sofa. When he is once more lying prone, Hannibal shakes out the blanket and then gently rests it over Will’s body. 

Moving to the end of the sofa where Will’s still shod feet are hanging over the edge, Hannibal begins to untie the laces of Will's shoes.

As he undoes the knot on the first shoe, Hannibal says, quietly but with sincerity, “I am sorry, Will.” 

Caught off guard by the shift in topic, Will asks,“For what?”

With the laces on both shoes untied, Hannibal eases the shoes off of Will’s feet and then places them neatly on the floor.

Turning back to Will, he returns to his previous position, kneeling on the floor close to Will’s head.

Once he is settled back on the floor, Hannibal finally gives his answer. “For taking Abigail away from you, away from us. For the pain that I inflicted on you, psychic and physical.”

Then, Hannibal reaches out, slowly, his hand hovering above Will’s head, waiting for a sign of discomfort. When none is forthcoming, Hannibal allows his hand to rest gently on the top of Will’s head.

A moment later, he begins running his fingers through Will’s hair, in an even, reassuring rhythm, as he says, “You had given me a promise—a promise of a life that we could have together. And I believed you. I trusted you. I trusted that you cared for me as I cared for you. Your betrayal brought out feelings that I had never before experienced. I needed you to know my pain. I wanted to show you the future you desperately wanted, and then get to watch you see it die. I did not think beyond that point."  
  
Even more quietly, almost reluctantly, Hannibal adds, "Perhaps that was folly on my part.”

It’s clear that Will is fighting against his body’s desperate fatigue, but he still manages to respond, “I knew you would be angry that I had betrayed you. But I didn’t realize—I didn’t understand that it would hurt you. Maybe I just didn’t want to see it.”

“There is no one who can hurt us more than our beloved. Every relationship is a risk. The closer you are, the more damage can be done.”

“I don’t know why anyone bothers.”  
  
“We’re social animals. That’s how we evolved.”

“Isn’t evolution supposed to help us?”  
  
“Evolution does not do anything intentionally. It has no direction, no motive. It’s simply the cumulative effect of a sequence of events.”

“How did you know? When did you know?”  
  
“That you had betrayed me?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“My acute sense of smell can detect cancer and encephalitis. I could also detect the potent aroma of the supposedly deceased Freddie Lounds. Of course, if I had not been so blinded by my affections for you, I would have determined your true motivations much sooner.”

“I’m sorry, too—not just for the Dragon, but for what happened five years ago.”

With a slight, almost sad smile, Hannibal says, “I know.”

Feeling undone by their conversation, Will says, "I still think about her, about Abigail. I worry that I’m losing her.”  
  
“You did lose her. I took her from you.”  
  
“I know she’s dead. I knew it the moment I woke up in that hospital bed. But I couldn’t couldn’t bear to let her go again, so I created a place for her in the only way I could. As long as I remember every piece of her, it feels like she isn’t completely gone. But what happens when I start to forget?”  
  
“It seems that you would do well to forget many of the memories that still haunt you.”  
  
“There are some things I’d like to forget, but not her.”  
  
Disentangling his hand from the top of Will's head, Hannibal uses his left hand to lightly cup the side of Will’s face, carefully avoiding the recently stitched skin, as he shifts Will’s head slightly so that they’re facing each other more fully.  
  
With an unwavering gaze, Hannibal says, solemnly, “Then we will remember her together.”

With those words, Hannibal removes his hand from Will’s face and tucks the blankets more tightly around him.

Standing up stiffly, Hannibal picks up the ice packs that had fallen to the floor and returns them to the icebox. 

Overcome by a fatigue that he can no longer resist, Will allows his eyes to shut once more, although his features are more relaxed than they were earlier. His still slightly uneven breathing is the only indication that he is still awake.

Standing once more behind the kitchen counter, Hannibal says, “I’m here to watch over you. If you fall into the grips of a nightmare, I’ll wake you.”

And with those words echoing in his mind, Will allows himself to drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was in the mood for intimacy, h/c, and emotionally raw conversations, well, hopefully you got some of that in this chapter! It probably won't come as a surprise that I recently re-watched the season 2 finale and season 3 finale. (I guess I was in the mood to have my heart trampled on?) That's probably responsible for the extra helping of feels in this chapter. After all, our boys have a lot of issues that they have to work through. Good thing they'll have plenty of time to do it.
> 
> That reminds me: A few chapters ago I said in my author’s note: “I don’t plan on devoting the next 25,000 words to narrating their entire trip across the Atlantic.” Well, I won’t literally narrate every single second of their trip across the Atlantic, but as far as word count, um, this chapter is already over 5,000 words long, and Ch 8 is already at the 4,000 word mark, and they're nowhere near France, so... I'm not even going to try to predict how many words or chapters we have until they reach Le Perche. I promise they'll get there, eventually :)
> 
> Oh, and one other thing: I've been watching a lot of interviews with Hugh, Mads, and Bryan Fuller, and I think that's somewhat colored my more recent writing. In particular, one of the things that's stuck with me is Mads saying, in several interviews, that Hannibal may obfuscate, but he doesn't really lie. He's not faking his emotions, either. But he's still able to push those emotions aside when it suits his purposes. Incidentally, I just think Mads is so, so sexy. I can't wait for the release of the season 3 DVD, since Bryan Fuller recently tweeted a promise that the "near kiss" between Hannibal and Will is going to be included. Now, if only they would release a full on makeout session to tide us over while we wait patiently for news of a season 4. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this long, dialogue heavy and slightly angsty chapter! I had originally planned on posting it earlier this weekend, but it just kept getting longer and longer. (Kind of like what happened with the previous 6 chapters.) I've been so busy working on this chapter that I haven't yet had a chance to go in and respond to the reviews for chapter 6 or a few from chapter 5, but I absolutely do read and cherish every comment that you guys leave, even when I don't reply to them right away. 
> 
> On that note, thank you to everyone who has read, commented, or left kudos on the story so far. I really appreciate it so much. I'll try to repay you guys by getting chapter 8 posted as soon as possible. Stay tuned :)


	8. Nisus and Euryalus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have had to wait so absurdly long for an update, so let’s save the abject apologies (and news about the tumblr I just started!) for after the chapter. I hope this was worth the wait :)

The Dragon emerges out of darkness, roaring to life, tail whipping back and forth, its wings flapping, cutting through the night air. And Will is standing in its path, at the edge of the cliff, only a step away from a long fall into the cold, violent water below.

He should run away or try to fight or yell for help, but he’s frozen to that spot, unable to move, paralyzed, even as he sees the fire move up from its belly, to it’s throat—but he stays rooted to the same spot, even as he knows he’s about to be burned alive.

But then, just as the Dragon begins to release its stream of fire, the stag appears from out of the darkness and runs into the path of the Dragon, shielding Will, and Will watches in horror as the stag is enveloped in flames—

_Will_

_Will_

_You need to wake up_

At those words, he jolts back to consciousness, gasping for breath, as his eyes focus and he finds himself staring up at the calm, even face of Hannibal Lecter.

For a moment, he can’t move, still stuck in the paralysis of his dream, made deaf by the pounding of his heart beat in his ears. When his limbs finally come under conscious control, he struggles to sit up, and Hannibal helps guide him into a seated position. 

“I take it you were having a nightmare?”  
  
Although the question is probably rhetorical, Will nods in confirmation, the movement jerky.  
  
Hannibal’s expression is unreadable as he stares at Will, unblinking, and says, “Your shirt is soaked through. Would you like my help in removing it?” 

Will gives another nod of assent, this one slightly more controlled than the first. 

Wordlessly, Hannibal kneels down and helps to pull the sweat-soaked shirt over Will’s head, being careful not to come into contact with his wounded shoulder.

With a wry, somewhat embarrassed smile, Will says, “I don’t know why I bother sleeping with a shirt on.”  
  
Hannibal’s only acknowledgement of those words is a slight upturn of his lips, and then abruptly, he stands up and walks away, in the direction of the larger sleeping berth.

Feeling more fatigued than he did before he fell asleep, Will allows his eyes to shut, although he’s startled into opening them a minute later when he feels a cool wash cloth pressed against his bare chest. 

Eyebrows raised, tone slightly incredulous, Will says, “Are you giving me a sponge bath?” 

Matter of factly, Hannibal responds, “This is not a sponge, I’m not a nurse, and you’re not my patient.”  
  
At Will’s skeptical look, Hannibal adds, “I assumed you would be more comfortable if you weren’t covered in a thick layer of perspiration, but I can stop, if you’d prefer.” 

“Waking up drenched in sweat isn’t exactly a new experience for me.”  
  
“So when you would wake up drenched in sweat during the night, you would simply roll over and go back to sleep?”  
  
With a shrug, Will says, “More or less.”

“Well, there’s no reason you should have to endure such discomforts now.”  
  
Hannibal waits for Will to respond, but when he doesn’t, Hannibal takes the silence as acquiescence and returns to his previous task, methodically running the cloth along the front of Will’s chest.

After allowing the silence to stretch on for several minutes, Hannibal says, “Tell me about your nightmare.”  
  
Will wants to refuse, but as if Hannibal’s words incite a Pavlovian response, he begins to recount the contents of his dream before he can stop himself.

His voice is detached and far away as he says, “I was in a world of pitch black. The only thing I could see was the Dragon—the Dragon as he imagined himself to be.”  
  
“The Great Red Dragon as William Blake depicted him.”

Grimacing, Will continues, “I knew that I was going to be burned alive, but I couldn’t run, I couldn’t fight. I felt frozen in place, like an insect trapped in a spider’s web.”

As Will’s words trail off, Hannibal presses gently on his left shoulder, encouraging Will to pivot so that he can wash off Will’s back.  
  
When Will doesn’t return to his narrative, Hannibal prompts, “What happened next? Were you wrapped in the inferno of the Dragon’s blaze?” 

Will closes his eyes, letting the images from his dream wash over him.  
  
“The stag—the stag saved me. It came out of nowhere and ran in front of the fire.”  
  
Voice dropping down even lower, Will adds, choking on the words, “I watched as it was engulfed in flames. It was burning alive, right in front of me.”

Eyes still closed, Will continues to watch the burning blaze still fresh from his dream, but gradually, the scene shifts, giving way to a very different image. 

 _Hannibal, framed by shattered glass and the spray of dark red blood._  

Taken off guard by the unexpected sight, Will opens his eyes and turns to Hannibal, who is staring at him with a mild, but warm, curiosity.

Overtaken by an emotion he can’t quite pin down, Will has to force the words out of his mouth, “Did you know?”  
  
Hannibal regards Will with perfect equanimity as he says, “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Taking a deep breath, Will clarifies, “Did you know the Dragon was about to strike?”

Hannibal’s gaze is steady, even keeled, as he says, “I had come to that conclusion, yes.”

Shifting his gaze so that his focus is on the patch of wall to the left of Hannibal’s head, Will recites, “No greater love hath man than to lay down his life for a friend. That’s what you said right before—then you stepped to the side, and a moment later—“

Will doesn’t finish the thought, as the memory of comes flooding back to him. All he can manage to say is, "Why?"

“Why would I try to shield you from the Dragon’s wrath?”

"Yes."

“I had no intentions of letting him kill you. Unlike you, I knew that from the start.”

Will winces, slightly, at those words.  
  
“To be fair, you saved my life as well—before you plunged us both off a cliff.”

Scrubbing his face with his hands, Will says, tiredly, “Do you want me to apologize again?”  
  
“Not at all.”  
  
Almost offhandedly, Hannibal adds, “Although perhaps you would indulge me in a brief re-visiting of that moment.”

“Sure, why not. We’ve already dissected my dreams.”  
  
Ignoring the sarcasm in Will’s tone, Hannibal says, “We’ve discussed your thinking leading up to our final confrontation with the Dragon, but I’m curious about your experience of the event itself.”

“Do you mean the fight or when—after the fight?”

“Both.”

“I should have felt disgust. I should have been disgusted with myself, with you. I slashed a man’s stomach, you tore out his jugular with your teeth—”  
  
Will pauses, taking note of the expression on Hannibal’s face—Pleased, triumphant, dangerous, like a cat who just killed a mouse.

Pushing away the uncomfortable associations, he continues, “But I wasn’t disgusted, and I didn’t feel hate, not for you, or myself, or the Dragon. I felt like he had given us a gift—a beautiful, precious gift. It was intimate, the act of killing him, killing him with you.”

“You enjoyed it.”  
  
Will looks away, but he still nods, slowly but deliberately.

Avoiding eye contact, Will adds, with a bitter edge, “That’s what you’ve wanted this whole time, isn’t it? To make me into a killer?”  
  
“It has never been my desire to mold you into an image, mine or anyone else’s. I merely wanted to help you find the highest embodiment of your true self.”

With a dark laugh, Will says, “You sound like one of those new age self help frauds when you talk like that.”

Hannibal is unfazed by implicit insult in those words. “Given the proximity of psychiatry and the self help genre, that’s not entirely surprising, although we’re wandering away from the topic at hand.”  
  
“What exactly is the topic at hand?”  
  
“Your mental state, after our victory over the Dragon.”  
  
Will takes a deep breath, steeling himself, before continuing. 

“When we were there, together, covered in blood—I’d never felt closer to you. Never felt closer to anyone. I couldn’t imagine going back to Molly and Walter, not after what I’d done. Not after the way I felt about what I had done—what we’d done.”

“You could no longer deny the delight you found in the darkest parts of yourself.”

“Among other things.”

Hannibal is silent for several long minutes, staring at Will, who, for his part, is staring at the floor.

Eventually, Hannibal says, “You once told me you were curious whether either of us could survive our separation.”  
  
“I remember. In Florence, when we were sitting together in front of the Botticelli.”

Will pauses, debating whether to continue, before finally admitting, “I’ve thought about that a lot, over the last three years.”  
  
“Did you ever find an answer?”  
  
“Yes, but the answer was always changing. There were days when I was sure that we could never separate. There were days when I—when I didn’t want to. And then there were moments when I convinced myself that we had separated, that we had survived.”  
  
“And now?”

“When we were standing on that bluff, above the Atlantic, I finally understood, without a doubt, that we couldn’t—that I couldn’t—survive our separation. The thought of walking away from this was unimaginable.”  
  
“And yet you couldn’t allow yourself to imagine a future beyond that point. That must have been rather disorienting.”

“It was, initially, but then suddenly I knew, as if I’d known all along, how this ended. How it had to end.”

“I couldn’t save myself, but I could save myself from turning into a monster, and I could save the world from you. All I had to do was shift my weight and give in to gravity, and then I could disappear into the void.”

“How did you feel about the prospect of death?”

Will closes his eyes, as he says, quietly, “Relieved.”

“But you didn’t die.”  
  
“No. And neither did you.”  
  
“So you failed on both counts. How does that make you feel?”  
  
“I’m not exactly overflowing with gratitude, if that’s what you want to hear.” 

“It’s bad form for a therapist to ask a question with an answer already in mind.”  
  
“Is that better or worse form than manipulating a patient into killing?”  
  
“That depends on who you’re asking.”

With a firmer tone, Hannibal adds, “Now, tell me, how do you feel about the present state of affairs?”

“Does it really matter?”  
  
“It does.”  
  
“I accept that I’m alive, that I survived. That we both survived.” 

“That is a state of mind, not an emotion.”  
  
“I’m too tired to feel much of anything right now.”  
  
“Or maybe you’re simply using fatigue as an excuse not to look inside.”  
  
“Maybe. Is that such a bad thing?”  
  
“Many therapists would say so.”  
  
“I’m not asking ‘many therapists.’”

“I think, for now, it is an acceptable choice, and I will not press you on it further. But bear in mind, you cannot hide from yourself forever.”

Taking the opportunity to turn the tables, Will says, “How did you feel, when we fought the Dragon?”

“Do you really have to ask?”  
  
“I want to hear you say it. _Quid pro quo.”_  
  
Smiling slightly at Will's phrasing, Hannibal says, “During and after our showdown with the Red Dragon, I felt alive and powerful. I felt the events connected us inextricably, as if all the betrayals and hurts had been erased, and we were left with a moment of the purest beauty, which I could only imagine in most exquisite dreams.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
“This is the reward for the three years I spent locked away in the Baltimore Institute for the Criminally Insane—and I could not ask for a better one.”  
  
That final sentiment reminds Will of a question that has been at the back of his mind for the last three years. Both desperate to know and afraid of the answer, Will asks, hesitantly, “What was it like?”  
  
“Are you referring to my confinement?”

“Yes.”

“I only saw the light of day when they took me to court and then never again. For those three years, my external world was shrunk to that glass cage. My only visitors were third rate academics and Frederick Chilton who came periodically to gloat and goad.”  
  
“I don’t know how you could survive three years there. I was miserable, and it was only a matter of weeks.”

“There is great power in acceptance. I had no reason to stoke the fire of rage or anger. My confinement was not unjust—I committed the crimes for which I was being punished. In fact, it was a path I chose for myself. None of those things were true for you.”  
  
“You were the one who chose that path for me.”  
  
“I never planned to keep you there indefinitely.”  
  
“Was I supposed to know that at the time?”  
  
“Not necessarily.”  
  
Deciding not to belabor that particular episode of hurt and betrayal, Will goes back to his original line of inquiry. “You went from the streets of Italy to a single, locked room. That couldn’t have been easy.”  
  
“It would not have been my first choice for accommodations, certainly, but it wasn’t entirely terrible. I devoted many hours to my studies, published several well-received articles, and produced a number of quite impressive sketches.”  
  
“If you do say so yourself.” 

The words are more teasing than unkind, and Hannibal smiles slightly at the jab, before saying, “I will admit that some moments were darker than others, but even in those dimmer moments, I could look out into the distance, to the light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak.”  
  
“What light?”  
  
“My belief that one day you would return to me.”  
  
“Why did you write that letter then, telling me not to come? Reverse psychology?”

“It was nothing so transparently self serving. I was being wholly genuine when I cautioned you not to let yourself fall once more under Jack’s influence. That was my advice to you as a friend, as someone who genuinely cared about your well being. I will not deny my desire to lay eyes on you once more, but I would have preferred it be your choice, not Jack Crawford’s."

Hannibal pauses and studies Will's face closely, before asking, “Did you ever consider visiting me?”  
  
An instant denial is on the tip of his tongue, but Will swallows that lie, and says, truthfully, “Yes. At first, almost every day. And then as the years went on, only on the bad days.”  
  
“Do you think you would have chosen to do so eventually, had Jack not intervened?”  
  
“I don’t know. Both options—bringing myself to visit you, never seeing you again—felt equally untenable. So I just tried not to think about it.”  
  
Seemingly satisfied with Will's answer, Hannibal says, lightly, “Well, now we don’t have to.”

Hannibal stands up and brushes himself off, before turning to Will, and saying, cheerfully, “It’s a beautiful day out. Perhaps we should dine outside.”

 

 

 

After their meal, Hannibal and Will remain on the deck, Will stretched out on the bench near the steering wheel while Hannibal sits nearby, his attention focused on the sketchpad in front of him. 

Watching the elegant and deliberate movements of Hannibal’s pencil, Will says, “I don’t know how you can draw anything with the motion of the boat.”  
  
Without looking up, Hannibal says, “I have a very steady hand.”

“What are you drawing?”  
  
“A depiction of Nisus and Euryalus, loosely based on the statue in the Louvre.”  
  
“I don’t know who they are.”  
  
Setting down the pencil and sketch pad, Hannibal redirects his focus to Will as he says,“They were relatively minor characters from Virgil’s Aeneid, but the brevity of their role doesn’t diminish its power, simultaneously showing the needless violence of war and the unbreakable bonds of love between men.”

Amused by the shift in Hannibal's demeanor, Will pushes himself up into a seated position and says, “Tell me more, Professor Lecter.”  
  
“Their first appearance has them competing in a foot race. With the finish line in sight, Nisus is in the lead, and Euryalus is running in third, but then Nisus slips on a puddle of blood and falls. Realizing his inevitable defeat, he extends his foot to bring down the second place competitor, allowing his faithful companion, Euryalus, to win.”  
  
“The sad conclusion to their tale comes several books later. Thirsty for blood and the spoils of war, they go on a raid, killing and taking what treasures they find. But before they can return to the safety of their own camp, they’re discovered, betrayed by the glint of Euryalus’s helmet in the moonlight. Their party scatters, running for safety. Nisus manages to escape, only to discover that his beloved Euryalus has been captured.”  
  
Caught up in this story, Will asks, “What does he do?” 

“Too far away to immediately reach his friend, Nisus tries to draw the attention of Euryalus’s captors to himself, and he manages to slay several men from afar, but Euryalus is stabbed in retaliation, dying before Nisus can reach him. Fatally injured himself, Nisus dies with his beloved Euryalus in his arms.”

When Hannibal concludes his narrative, Will turns the story over in his mind for several minutes before saying, “Not exactly an uplifting story.”  
  
“It is tragic, certainly, but there’s beauty in it as well. The love between these two men is evident throughout their tale, and it brings a brightness even to the darkest parts. After all, if one is to die, what better way to do it, than in service of your beloved?"

"And of course, there is beauty to be found in the poetry of their tragic final act. Take, for example, Virgil’s stirring description of Euryalus’s death: 

 _He writhes in death_  
_as blood flows over his shapely limbs, his neck droops,_  
_sinking over a shoulder, limp as a crimson flower_  
_cut off by a passing plow, that droops as it dies_  
_or frail as poppies, their necks weary  
__bending their heads when a sudden shower weighs them down._

"Then there is the narration of Nisus's final moments, just as beautifully told: 

 _riddled with wound on wound, he threw himself_  
_on his lifeless friend and there in the still of death  
_ _found peace at last."_

Hannibal pauses after he finishes reciting the last line, allowing Will to turn the words over in his mind.

A moment later, Hannibal gets to his feet and says, “I’m going to get something to drink. Would you care for anything?”

“No, I’m fine.”  
  
“How about water? Hydration is important, especially after our ordeal, along with your tendency to perspire.”  
  
Will’s eyes narrow slightly, but Hannibal stares back, unperturbed. 

Giving in, Will says, “Yeah, okay, water’s fine. Thanks.”  
  
When Hannibal disappears below the deck, Will is seized by a sudden curiosity, so he stands up and goes to the table where Hannibal left his sketch pad.

Carefully pulling back the sheet of paper covering the drawing, Will sees a striking sketch of two men, one sprawled across the ground, the other kneeling over him. As Will leans over to examine the work more closely, he focuses for the first time on the familiar faces of the two men in the picture: 

Hannibal, standing over a wounded Will, looking up mournfully at the sky, one of Will’s hands clasped to his chest.

And beneath the drawing, written in Hannibal’s careful, sweeping handwriting:

 _Fortunati ambo! Si quid mea carmina possunt  
_ _nulla dies umquam memori vos eximet aevo_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so first of all, I am really, really, really sorry for the long wait between chapters. I was stuck in a general writing rut and also, for whatever reason, this chapter was particularly challenging for me to wrap up. I’m still not 100% satisfied with it, but I wanted to go ahead and get it posted so I could move on to the rest of the story (and my other fics) and so you guys could finally get an update. 
> 
> In other news, I just recently joined tumblr. You can find me at: <https://artsandlecterverse.tumblr.com>. I’ll be posting whenever there’s an update for one my fanfics so you can check that out if you want to hear about updates without subscribing on AO3 or if you don’t have an AO3 account. I also may try to post the occasional snippet from future chapters/fics.
> 
> Originally I was planning on using tumblr to post episode recaps/analyses, but somehow, that evolved into me posting screencaps with the "internal monologues" of Will, Jack, Alana, Hannibal, all of Will’s dogs, and more. I don’t really know why. It just sort of happened. It's about as ridiculous as it sounds. So check it out? The screencaps are pretty, because everything on this show is gorgeous. Oh, and feel free to let me know if you have a tumblr that you want me to check out/follow!
> 
> I'm going to do my very best to get chapter 9 posted much faster than this chapter. During my posting hiatus, I fleshed out a lot of events that will come later in the story, so I'm looking forward to actually getting these guys to France. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who patiently waited for this update! I do really, really appreciate the feedback, and although I've fallen behind on replying to comments, I do read all of them. I love hearing from you, and it definitely helped motivate me to finally get this posted. Stay tuned for chapter 9! It's tentatively titled, "Written in the Stars."
> 
> And now, here are citations and explanations for this chapter. Believe it or not, this is the abbreviated version. I originally maxed out the number of allowed characters for author's notes. If you want to see the more detailed version, I've posted it to tumblr. 
> 
> The excerpts from the Aeneid that Hannibal quotes are taken from Robert Fagles's translation. Fagles's translation for the Latin quote that Hannibal includes on his drawing is: "How fortunate, both at once! If my songs have any power, the day will never dawn that wipes you from the memory of the ages“ Here's a photo of the statue that Hannibal uses as the basis for his sketch: <https://peelclassics.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/nisus_et_euryale.gif>
> 
> Also, credit where credit is due: The “Hannibal stepped out of the way to protect Will” theory was not mine. It came from this recap of episode 3.13: <http://wellntruly.tumblr.com/post/128153908578/hannibal-recap-s3e13>. I have no idea if that’s actually canon, but as soon as I read that theory it automatically became my head canon because, well, I love protective!Hannibal. Also the whole recap is hilarious and insightful, and you should read it if you haven't already.
> 
> A quick note on the dragon in Will’s nightmare. I’m not exactly well versed in biblical matters, but I’ve been trying to read up some on the Book of Revelations which is where the imagery that Blake depicts. As far as I can tell, that dragon probably can’t breathe fire, and based on the Blake illustrations, it really doesn’t look like the LOTR style dragons that I tend to think associate with the term, but I took a bit of artistic license hear. Plus, it’s Will’s sub conscience which means everything is like 1000 times more terrifying.
> 
> (Believe it or not, this is an abbreviated version of this note. I maxed out the character limit on AO3, so I cut out some of the less important explanations and I've posted them on my tumblr so you can find them here if you want to read the rest: <http://artsandlecterverse.tumblr.com/post/136093112089/paradiso-archive-of-our-own>.)


	9. Finding a New Equilibrium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, an update! Special thanks to everyone who has continued to read and leave feedback on this story, despite the slow updates. I really appreciate it, and even though I've been bad about responding recently, I read and cherish every single comment that I get.
> 
> Apologies in advance for any typos/errors. As always, this story is unbeta'd, and usually I spend forever editing (which usually leads to endless changes), but I really want to get this posted before the start of the work week. Feel free to point out anything you catch. I also periodically proofread previous chapters, so whatever mistakes slip through, I'll probably get around to fixing them eventually.
> 
> Anyway, on to Chapter 9 :)

After spending most of the afternoon on the deck in companionable silence, Hannibal sketching and Will watching the water as the boat slices through the current, as the day draws closer to evening, Hannibal sets aside his pad and pencil, Will breaks himself away from his watch, and they both head down to the living area.

As they descend the steps, Hannibal in front, Will behind, halfway down, Hannibal stops, so abruptly that Will nearly collides with him.

Turning his head slightly so he can look behind, at Will, Hannibal says, “I almost forgot. I have another surprise for you.”

Will raises his eyebrows slightly. “Other than the boat?”  
  
“Yes.” Hannibal pauses, and then adds, as an afterthought, “Although somewhat related to it.”  
  
Will follows, as Hannibal leads them into the kitchen area. Once there, Will stands and waits as Hannibal kneels down and begins opening and searching through the cabinets.

“Now, where did Chiyoh put it.”

A few minutes later, he stands up triumphantly, holding a cardboard box in his hands, which he sets on the counter in front of Will. 

Will looks up, questioningly, and at Hannibal’s slight nod, he moves closer, lifting the flaps, to discover—

“You bought me a tackle box?”

With the slightest quirk of his lips, Hannibal says, “There’s more.” 

Will opens the lid to find the tackle box is filled with supplies, each one neatly arranged and organized. Without hesitation, he begins examining each of the compartments and the supplies they contain—almost an exact replica of his personal collection. 

Watching Will’s exploration with unguarded fondness, Hannibal says, “I thought it might come in handy on our little ocean journey.”

At that, Will looks up, and Hannibal adds, “I also know it’s something you enjoy greatly.”  
  
Will opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, Hannibal says, “Of course, the fishing rods are in the closet. Couldn’t fit them in that box.”

Hearing those words, Will’s face falls slightly, as he realizes, “I don’t know that I can make lures with my shoulder like this.”  
  
“Your arm will heal in time.”

With a hint of humor in his tone, Hannibal adds “After all, you do have an excellent physician on hand to monitor your recovery.”  
  
Will’s face briefly twitches into a half smile, although the smile never quite reaches his eyes. 

Worldlessly, Hannibal bends down again, and brings out a smaller box, which he hands to Will.

“In the meantime hopefully these will suffice.”  
  
Inside the box, Will finds a small selection of lures. He picks one up, holds it up to the light and realizes, “Is this _my_ lure?” 

He goes back to the first box, examines the tackle box contents more closely. “All of this is mine.” It’s part statement and part question.  
  
“Not all of it. I supplemented your assortment, but much of the materials are yours, and all the lures are ones you made.”  
  
Hannibal pulls out another lure from the box and holds it in the palm of his hand, looking at it appraisingly.  
  
“I’ve always admired your exquisite craftsmanship with regards to these lures. It’s a perfect example of form and function united together.”  
  
Face still twisted in confusion, Will says, slowly, “ _How_ did you get this?”  
  
“Chiyoh, of course.”  
  
With a hint of sarcasm, Will echoes, “Of course.”  
  
“Once the premises were vacated, it was quite easy for her to slip in and obtain the necessary items.”  
  
Will notices the way Hannibal tactfully avoids any reference to the circumstances that forced Molly and Walter out of their home, but he doesn’t comment on the omission. It would seem too rude, too adversarial, after the lengths that Hannibal went to in order to arrange all of this—all for him, for Will.  
  
“I thought it best not to take everything. The complete absence might draw unwanted attention.”  
  
Then, he adds, “Of course, I would have been happy to purchase an entirely new set of materials, but this being such a personal hobby, I assumed you would prefer to have as much of your own materials as possible.”  
  
As Hannibal is speaking, Will continues to sort through the contents, and an unconscious smile, genuine and steady, forms on his face. Some of the tension bleeds out at him as he revels in the familiarity.

Hannibal watches all of this with his own, satisfied smile, committing every moment to memory, taking pleasure in Will’s pleasure, happy to watch him so unguarded, uninhibited. 

Eventually, Will becomes aware of himself once more. He carefully returns the feathers that were in his hand back to their rightful compartment and looks up at Hannibal. 

“Thank you.”

The words seem inadequate to Will’s ears, but Hannibal graciously inclines his head. “You’re very welcome.”

Then, looking up at the clock on the wall, Hannibal says, “I believe it’s time for dinner.”

Balancing both boxes with his left arm, Will hesitates slightly, before asking, “Do you want help?”  
  
Hannibal tilts his head to the side, and says, “Are you offering to sous chef?”

Wryly, Will responds, “I’m not sure how much use I’ll be, but I’m willing to—I’d like to help.”  
  
Hearing those words, Hannibal’s eyes soften, and he says, warmly, “Your help is always appreciated.” 

Almost offhandedly, he adds, “Perhaps one day, you’d permit me to give you some culinary lessons.”  
  
“I’d like that.”  
  
It isn’t until the words leave Will’s mouth that he realizes they’re true. Even after all that’s happened, the idea does appeal to him. It reminds him of that evening, years ago, in Hannibal’s kitchen—

_You slice the ginger_

Oddly, the emotions attached to that memory are more positive than negative, and Will immediately makes a pact with himself not to examine that fact too closely.

Breaking Will out of his thoughts, Hannibal says, “Observation is the first step.”  
  
It takes a moment for Will to process the words, to connect it to the last beat in their conversation, but when he does, he responds, "See one, do one, teach one. Isn’t that the expression?”

“It is indeed.” 

While Will was lost in his own head, Hannibal had already begun to pull out various knives and pans and ingredients, which are now neatly arranged on the small kitchen counter  
  
Looking around, Will says, “Probably best if you take care of anything involving knives.”

“You can stir.”  
  
“Seems appropriately straight forward.”

“Be sure to use your left hand. Wouldn’t want you putting any more stress on your injuries.”  
  
“What about your injuries?” 

Matter of factly, Hannibal says, “Stitches on the abdomen undergo far less stress than those at the joints.”

A pause, and then, “I’m also not in the habit of neglecting my own personal welfare.”

Will immediately recognizes the unspoken sentiment—the implication of Will's neglect for his own welfare. The words should be insulting, but Hannibal says them so matter of factly that Will doesn’t bother countering them. 

Instead, he picks up a wooden spatula—with his left hand—and waits for Hannibal’s instructions.

They work mostly in silence after that, the quiet broken only by Hannibal giving directions, or occasionally narrating the what and how of various steps and ingredients.  
  
The kitchen is small and cramped by any standard, and yet, they navigate the close quarters seamlessly, shifting one way and then the other, wordlessly, almost unconsciously.

Finally, with the cooking almost completed, Will steps away from the stove, making room for Hannibal.

Leaning back against the kitchen counter, Will watches as Hannibal tastes the dish, making adjustments to the seasoning as necessary. Hannibal adds a final pinch of salt, and then stirs once, twice, three times, before turning off the flame.

As he wipes his hands on a towel, he looks to Will and says, lightly, “This was nice.”

Will takes a moment to absorb the words, turn them over in his hand, before finally saying, “Yeah, it was.”

The movement purposefully casual, Hannibal places his hand on Will’s uninjured shoulder, as he says, “Perhaps you’d like to set the table while I take care of plating the food.”  
  
With an edge of humor, Will says, “Do you have to plate all your meals?”  
  
“I believe every meal should be savored, and there is more to food than taste. Presentation is just as critical.”  
  
“You’re the expert.”  
  
“In this area, certainly, although I don’t have your talents for fishing or sailing, nor for the mechanics of assembling boat motors .”  
  
“Only because you haven’t applied yourself.”

Hannibal doesn’t argue that point. Instead he says, cryptically, “One's worth is not measured by their skills or competencies.”  
  
“Isn’t it?”  
  
“Maybe to men like Jack Crawford.”  
  
“But not to you?”  
  
“No. You’re worth could never be quantified by a mere inventory of your faults and talents.”

Will’s brow furrows, trying to unpack the meaning of that particular sentiment, but then Hannibal says, “The dishes are in that cabinet, second shelf. Remember, left hand only.”

Shifting his focus, Will rolls his eyes slightly at that last reminder, before turning his focus to setting the table.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
After the meal is eaten and the dishes are cleared, they retire once more to the deck. Will emerges first and settles down on the bench in front of the steering wheel, shifting to watch the sun as it begins to set over the horizon behind them.

Not long after, Hannibal comes up the stairs. In his right hand, he holds a bottle of champagne, and in the other, he delicately balances two champagne flutes. 

Gracefully setting the glasses down, Hannibal says, “It seems appropriate to propose a toast—especially since our previous attempt was so rudely interrupted.”  
  
“A toast to what?”

Before answering, Hannibal twists the cork, and pours a glass, first for Will, and then to himself. 

Lifting his own glass up, Hannibal says, “To the opportunities and adventures that await us. To the new lives that are now ours to enjoy. To the future.”

Will lifts his glass up as well, mirroring Hannibal’s motions. “To the future.”

And then together, they drink.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
When the sun has finally set and the stars have emerged, Will looks to Hannibal and says, “I’ll take the first watch. You should sleep.”  
  
“Are you avoiding the specters that might come to call when you lay your head to rest?”  
  
“One of us should sleep, and I took a nap earlier.”  
  
“A brief one, as I recall.”  
  
“Still more than you’ve had.”  
  
Hannibal studies Will’s face, his features lit by the glow from the cabin and the light from the almost full moon.

Conceding, he says, “Very well. I’m happy to take over the watch when you begin to tire.”  
  
Will nods in acknowledgement, then turns his attention back to the dark, moonlit waters, as Hannibal descends the stairs.  
  
The hours that follow blur together, as Will stares out at the sea, black and fathomless, seemingly never ending. Occasionally, he hears the sound of a bird as it flies over head or a fish breaking the surface of the water.

He tries to clear his head, to reign in his spiraling thoughts. When the voices in his mind get too loud, he stands up, stretches, busies himself with minute adjustments of their course or the sails, or even just wiping the salty spray off various surfaces.

He doesn't bother checking the time. On his previous ocean crossing, he learned that it's better not to monitor the passing hours of the night, easier to let them go unchecked until the sun finally rises.

At some point, the nervous energy bleeds away, and he finds himself starting to tire. His eyes start to close, his head slumps forward, but he always startles awake. Sometimes it's the boat shifting in the current or the sounds of waves lapping at the hull that bring him back from the brink of sleep. More often, it's the images that come flooding in behind his eyes.

Once more, he's seduced by the promise of sleep, and he allows himself to lean back and close his eyes, but as he drifts off, he's seized by a feeling of weightlessness, as his stomach drops, and then he's falling through the air, plunged off of a cliff, towards the violent sea. The fall is endless, then finally, just as his body is about to break the surface of the water, his eyes fly open, jumps to his feet, staggers before he steadies himself. He leans forward, hands gripping the railing for balance, as he gasps for breath, shaking, eyes wild as he looks around, until he finally finds his bearings.

He takes his seat, once more, but he forces himself to sit upright, eyes wide open. As he wipes the sweat from his face with the edge of his shirt, he vows to stay awake, at least until sunrise.

A short while later, Hannibal comes up the stairs, onto the deck, footsteps so quiet that Will is unaware of his presence until Hannibal says— 

“You should have woken me sooner. It’s nearly sunrise.”

Will tenses, almost imperceptibly, startled. Without turning around, shaking his head slightly, Will says, stubbornly, “I’m not tired.”

Hannibal's expression is skeptical and his tone chiding. “Nonetheless, you should sleep. Your body needs rest, now more than ever.”

Will refuses to respond, so for several long minutes, they remain at an impasse, Will sitting, Hannibal standing, until Hannibal says, more firmly, “I’ll keep watch up here, while you sleep down below.”  
  
Still, Will remains seated, facing away from Hannibal, unmoving and silent.

Eventually, when Hannibal seems unwilling to relent, Will shifts slightly, so that he can see Hannibal out of the corner of his eye, and says, “I’ve always felt more comfortable out here then down below. The sky overhead, the sound of the waves. I’m not—I can’t—”

Hannibal fixes his sharp gaze on Will’s profile, studying his face like a map. Finally, coming to a decision, Hannibal turns around wordlessly and disappears once more down the stairs.  
  
After a few minutes, he emerges, a bundle of blankets and pillows in his arms. 

“If you can’t sleep down there, then I insist you sleep up here.”

At Will’s somewhat skeptical look, Hannibal says, “I must admit, the thought briefly occurred to me that I could just as easily offer you a nightcap laced with a sleeping pill, but I thought perhaps that would not be the most auspicious start to our journey together.”  
  
Hearing those words, Will lets out a short, harsh laugh. “Yeah, drugging friends is generally frowned on.”  
  
Acknowledging that with a graceful nod, Hannibal says, “Obviously, I thought better of it. Otherwise, I would have returned carrying a drink, not an armful of blankets.” 

Will shifts so that he’s facing Hannibal, although he still resists making eye contact, looking past him, rather than at him. 

And then, silently, he acquiesces, vacating his seat so that Hannibal can sit down, while Will stands. He picks up a blanket and lays it carefully down on the floor, perpendicular to the steering wheel.  
  
Watching Will’s movements, Hannibal says, “I would think a padded seat would be more suitable for sleeping than the floor.” 

Shaking his head, Will says, “Too narrow. If the ship pitches to one side, or even if I roll over, I’ll end up on the floor.”

A moment later, he adds with a slight grimace, “I learned that lesson the hard way.”

As he picks up the second blanket, Will sees a neatly folded T shirt and pair of sleep pants.  
  
“I thought you’d be more comfortable in a change of clothes.” 

Picking up the pants, Will says, “These aren’t mine.”  
  
“They’re mine. We’re not the same size, obviously, but you don’t keep such items in your wardrobe, so these will have to do for now. Of course, if you prefer to sleep without them, I wouldn’t be bothered by it, but I suspected you might be more comfortable this way. Wouldn’t want you catching a cold.”  
  
“You don’t mind?  
  
“Not at all.” 

Will picks up the clothing and says, “I’m just going to go change.”  
  
A few minutes later, Will returns, wearing sleep pants with the cuffs rolled up, drawstring tied tightly—although they still drag slightly on the floor—and the T shirt in his hand.  
  
Looking at Will sharply, Hannibal says, “You didn’t change your shirt.”  
  
“No. Well, I tried—”  
  
Will hesitates, but before he can explain further, Hannibal pats the bench next to him.  
  
Obediently, Will sits down, while Hannibal stands up and pulls the fabric of the left sleeve out so that Will can free his left arm. Hannibal then pulls the shirt over Will’s head, carefully avoiding contact with the stitches on his face. Finally, he gently eases the shirt off of Will’s injured right side.

He pauses for a moment, leaning down slightly to look at the stitches on his shoulder.  
  
“You’ve been putting far too much stress on these.”  
  
With a shrug of his left shoulder, Will says, “I’m right handed.”

Hannibal’s expression tightens slightly, and Will waits for an inevitable reprimand, but instead, Hannibal simply picks up the clean shirt and helps Will put it on.

Now changed, Will settles himself down into the pile of blankets and pillows on the floor. For his part, Hannibal returns to his seat and picks up his notebook.

Watching Hannibal out of the corner of his eye, Will says, “You don’t need to stay up here.”  
  
“I’ve had more than enough rest for now. I’ll stay up here while you sleep down below.”

When Will stays frozen, sitting up, Hannibal muses, “I wonder, is your discomfort a lack of trust in me? Or a more general resistance to even the most mild display of vulnerability?”

Mulling the question over, Will concludes, “In this moment, more the latter than the former.” 

“This isn’t the first time I’ve watched over you while you slept.’  
  
“You mean after we escaped from Mason Verger?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“A lot’s happened since then.”  
  
“It has.”

When Will still makes no move to lie down, Hannibal says, “I presumed that you would sleep better knowing someone was monitoring our progress, but if that’s not the case, I’m happy to entertain myself below the deck.”  
  
With a sigh, Will concedes, “No, you’re right. It's better this way."

He lies down on his left side and pulls the blankets tightly around himself. As he closes his eyes, Will tries to force his overtired mind and body to relax, grounding himself in the gentle movements of the boat, the solid wood beneath him, and the rhythmic sounds of the waves.

After several long minutes, the quiet is interrupted by Hannibal, voice soft and solemn as he promises, “I’ll keep watch over you as well.”  
  
And hearing those words, Will finally allows himself to drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lack of action or much forward progress in this chapter. Once again, the boys incessant chatter and my compulsive need to describe ALL THE THINGS means that I didn’t get as far as I wanted to, but I decided that it was better to get this part posted rather than delaying any longer, so hopefully some update, even a largely uneventful one, is better than nothing. And, let's be honest, the boys need a bit of a breather after everything they've gone through. It's only fair. Also, I guess I'm a sucker for competent and caring Hannibal and poor wounded Will. (Don't worry, though...we'll also get to see some badass Will Graham later on.)
> 
> In other news, I’ve been on a little bit of a writing roll this past week, so I’ve got about 6,000 words written for chapters 10 and 11. Now I just need to go in and stitch together all the different parts. Given my terrible track record recently, I don’t want to make over promise, but I’m really hoping to get Chapter 10 out in a matter of weeks, not months. 
> 
> Believe it or not, the bulk of what I have planned for this story occurs after they get off this boat. And I have SO MUCH planned…basically, my version of Season 4 AND Season 5. So I'm looking forward to moving things along. Still, there are a couple of twists and turns to get through before they can make it to the other side of the Atlantic.
> 
> Also, just a reminder that you can follow my Hannibal tumblr, [artsandlecterverse](http://artsandlecterverse.tumblr.com), for announcements of fic updates/progress. I'm also planning on including previews/snippets of in progress chapters, but I kind of forgot to do that for this chapter. Maybe next time!
> 
> And finally, because it wouldn't be an author's note from me if it didn't go on forever, a few months ago, I put together a video of the Hannigram almost kiss where I spliced out the interruptions and added in a deleted scene to replace the whole Bedelia debacle. So, if you want a little Hannigram pick me up, check it out here: [Hannigram almost kiss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1kQ9cEH9l3k)


	10. Turbulent Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe it’s been over a year since I last updated this story! I know not everyone is going to want to re-read the first 9 chapters, so just as a (very) brief refresher:
> 
> Will and Hannibal survived the fall off the cliff, swam to shore, burned down the cliff house to try to cover their tracks. They sailed away in the boat that Hannibal bought for Will as a "running away together" present during Season 2. Chapter 9 ended with Will going to sleep on the boat deck, while Hannibal kept guard. (Yes, 9 chapters in, and we've only made it through about 48 hours since the end of TWOTL). Also, they talked A LOT.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this long overdue chapter!

Will comes back to consciousness slowly. He’s drawn from sleep by a bird flying over head, the gentle lapping of water against the side of the boat, and the soft strokes of a pencil over paper.

The sounds of the ocean, the warmth from the sun, the gentle breeze carrying the scent of the sea—it’s so peaceful that he’s tempted to drift back to sleep once more. 

But instead, he fights the impulse and opens his eyes. At first, he’s blinded by the brightness of his surroundings, until his eyes adjust to the sunlight reflecting off the boat’s deck.

Without looking away from his sketchbook, Hannibal says, cheerfully. “Good morning. Or should I say, good afternoon.”

Will sits up, letting out a low, involuntary groan as his stiff muscles protest the sudden movement. “What time is it?”  
  
“Just after twelve o’clock.”

“I shouldn’t have slept this late.”  
  
“You seemed to be sleeping peacefully. I saw no compelling reason to disrupt your rest. Evidently you needed it.”  
  
Hannibal finally sets down his pencil and sketchbook, turning his full attention to Will, watching his face contort as he tries to ease the ache in his stiff muscles.  
  
Aware of Hannibal’s scrutiny, Will says, “Everything hurts more than it did before I went to sleep.”

“I imagine a wooden floor sans mattress is a less than ideal resting place for your battered body.”

A moment later, Hannibal stands up and moves so that he’s seated on the bench above Will’s makeshift bed.

Will looks up at him, as much as his stiff neck will allow.

By way of explanation, Hannibal says, “Allow me.”

After a brief moment of indecision, Will lets his arms fall to his side.

Hannibal starts at the base of Will’s cervical spine, fingers moving in gentle circles, up and down, then gradually they move along the top of his back, to his uninjured shoulder.

With one strong hand, he lifts Will’s arm slightly, moving the shoulder in small slow circles as he continues to probe with his other hand.  
  
After several minutes, he moves to his injured shoulder. Hannibal’s touch is light, fingers barely ghosting over skin, but even that small pressure is enough to make Will wince, despite himself.

Hannibal stills in his movements, and asks, “May I?”  
  
Will nods, once, and Hannibal carefully pulls aside the collar of his shirt, examining the stitches and the inflamed skin around it.

“You should be more careful.”  
  
“I’m used to working with my hands.” 

“Or are you simply used to ignoring the demands of your body?”

“Why not both?”

Will’s words and tone are light, although the lines of his face are strained and his eyes still bloodshot.

Hannibal answers with a small smile of his own, giving a gentle squeeze to Will’s uninjured shoulder, before saying, “Wait here.”

When Hannibal returns, he’s carrying bandages and a bundle of fabric. He sits down on the bench once more, and pats the spot beside him, as if beckoning a small child.

In response to Will’s skeptical expression, Hannibal says, “I told you that I would have to put you in a sling if necessary.”

“I didn’t think you were serious.”

“I was then and now. I won’t force this on you, but I would strongly recommend it.”  
  
When Will still looks resistant, Hannibal adds, “Why not try it out? If it’s too restricting, we’ll simply remove it." 

Will eventually nods in acquiescence, and seats himself on the bench.

Hannibal’s movements are precise and efficient as he takes a large cloth and folds it into a perfect triangle, smoothing out the fabric across his lap, then gently manipulating Will’s arm into the correct position. Hannibal loops the fabric under Will’s forearm, then secures it behind the nape of Will’s neck.

“How does that feel?”

Will grimaces slightly, “Tolerable.”

As Hannibal examines is handiwork, he asks, “How did you sleep? Any nightmares?”  
  
Will is caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. “My sleep was surprisingly nightmare free.”  
  
“Do your remember waking up at all?”  
  
“No. Should I?”

When Hannibal doesn’t respond immediately, Will feels suspicion welling up in him. More harshly than he intended, he asks, “Did you drug me?”  
  
If the question offends Hannibal, he shows no sign of it. “How could I? You hadn’t eaten or drank anything for hours.”  
  
“You’ve never let that stop you before. There’s always inhalants—chloroform, maybe ether. Or you could have injected me with a narcotic during the night.”  
  
“Perhaps I erred in mentioning the consideration I gave to slipping something into your beverage last night.”  
  
“Why did you tell me that?”  
  
“I wanted to impress upon you the importance I placed on your getting a good night’s sleep.” 

“So you were blackmailing me into sleeping?”  
  
“I was demonstrating the extent to which I was concerned about your welfare, and the lengths I would go to ensure it.”  
  
“I need to make an addendum to our agreement.”

Hannibal waits, expectantly.  
  
Will inhales and then exhales slowly, before saying, “Don’t drug me without my knowledge and permission.”  
  
“I’ll consent to said addendum, provided you allow me to add one of my own.”  
  
“And that would be?”  
  
“You agree to stop denying your body adequate rest and nutrition. Unlike Jack Crawford, I have no desire to see you push yourself to the brink of destruction.”

“Unless it suits your own designs.”  
  
“Still recalling my actions with regards to your illness?”  
  
A long buried anger flares up inside of Will. “You insisted that I was suffering from mental illness, when you knew that my brain was on fire. You conspired with my neurologist to hide it from me—and then you killed that doctor so that you could frame me for his murder.”

“I didn’t inflict you with anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis. In fact, if it hadn’t been for my gifted sense of smell, I would have been none the wiser about your condition.”

“What difference does that make?”

“To you, perhaps none. But to me, a great deal.”  
  
“ _Why_ did you do it?” 

“I’ll answer that if you first tell me why you think I did it.”

“Why do you do anything? For your own amusement.”

“Do you really believe that my sole motive was my own entertainment?”

When Will doesn’t respond, Hannibal concedes, “I’ll admit I was curious, from an empirical perspective. Such a rare opportunity to observe the effect that the disease would have on a mind as unique as yours.”

“So you used me as your science project.”

“As so often is the case, I had multiple, overlapping and occasionally conflicting motivations.”

“Do go on, Dr. Lecter.”

Ignoring the sarcasm in Will’s voice, Hannibal continues, “From the moment of our initial, fateful encounter, I was enthralled by the way your mind worked, your capacity to understand and empathize with the best and worst of humanity. I never imagined I would meet anyone like you in my lifetime. Simultaneously so like and unlike myself.  
  
“And yet, I was acutely aware of the danger this posed. Even in the throes of encephalitis, you still were able to see past the lies and manipulations. You were able to see me, what I was, what I had done.”  
  
“I should have seen it sooner.”  
  
“You did, or at least, a part of you did. What else was your Nightmare Stag, if not a manifestation of your subconscious, desperately trying to give voice to what some small part of you knew from the very beginning. 

“Had your brain not been inflicted with such a malady, you would certainly have seen through the veil far sooner. Your encephalitis gave me time, time to work my way into your life—”

“Into my head.”  
  
“Yes—time I would not otherwise have had.”

Curious despite himself, Will asks, “What would you have done if I hadn’t had encephalitis?”  
  
“Before I discovered your encephalitis, it was clear you were suffering greatly under the strain of Jack Crawford’s demands. I hoped that would be enough to distract you from any deductions you might make about me.”

“How do you do it?”  
  
“You need only look inside of yourself to find the answer to that—how you conspired with Jack Crawford to ensnare me.”  
  
“Compartmentalize the different parts of yourself, selectively drawing on emotions, experiences, and half truths, best fitting the situation.”  
  
Hannibal nods. “When I first diagnosed you as suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, I did that in good faith. I truly believed your symptoms were the result of the traumas inflicted on you by your work with the FBI.”

“So you separated that part of yourself from the part that knew about the encephalitis, that lied and misdirected and used me for your own gain—risking my health and sanity for your own ends.”

“More or less. Isn’t that what you did when you conspired against me with Jack? And more recently, with the Dragon?”  
  
“More or less.”  
  
“I told you once that we were just alike, you and I.”  
  
“Do you still believe that?”  
  
“Perhaps it was an oversimplification. We do share much in common, in our thoughts, in our desires. But there are points of difference.”  
  
“Like your ability to turn your empathy on and off like a light switch?”  
  
“Yes, like that, although you’ve grown a great deal, in this regard. You’ve learned how to harness those overactive mirror neurons that have always been your greatest blessing and curse.” 

They lapse into silence for several long minutes, each continuing along separate trains of thought, until finally Will says, “You really had no idea?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“About my encephalitis? Before you smelled it on me?”  
  
“None at all. Each one of your symptoms could reasonably be attributed to the severe stress you were under. With or without encephalitis, the toll it takes on you is a heavy one.”

“Makes it all the more surprising that I made it through last night without waking up soaked in sweat.”  
  
“There were a few times where you began to show signs of distress.”

“Were you watching me sleep?”  
  
“No, but I could hardly fail to notice you stirring.”  
  
“Did you try to wake me?”  
  
Delicately and maddeningly vague, as always, Hannibal responds, ”I was hoping to avoid disturbing your sleep, so I did my best to calm you without waking you.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“I told you that you were safe, that I was watching over you, and then I pulled up the blankets that you had discarded in the course of your distress. Wouldn’t do for you to catch a chill.”  
  
“You tucked me in?”  
  
“In a manner of speaking.” 

“I don’t remember any of that.”  
  
“I wouldn’t expect you to. It’s not unusual for a person to wake several times during the sleep cycle, but typically it’s brief enough that one is unaware of it happening.”

The thought of Hannibal watching him sleep for hours on end is a disquieting one, so Will is grateful when Hannibal changes the subject by suggesting they go below for a meal.

 

 

After they’d eaten, Will insists they devote the afternoon to Hannibal learning more about the operation of the boat. 

“Is that necessary? As I told you before, I did extensive research on the topic before purchasing the boat.”

Wryly, Will responds, “Got something better to do?”  
  
“If by better, you mean more relaxing and mentally stimulating, then yes.”  
  
Will’s face softens slightly. “Sometimes I forget. If you need to rest—You were just shot—”

“And thrown off a cliff.”  
  
“Yeah, uh, if you’re not feeling up to it, we can wait.”  
  
“I appreciate the concern, but it’s unnecessary.”

A moment later, Hannibal adds, “What is it that you sometimes forget?”  
  
“Huh?”

“You said ‘Sometimes I forget.’”

Will looks down at his feet, and admits, sheepishly, “That you’re human.”

“Is it easier to think of me as something other?”  
  
“It was, sometimes it still is.”

It looks as though Hannibal is preparing to press Will further, but instead, he concedes.

“You allowed me to instruct you in the kitchen, so I suppose it’s only fair that I submit to your instructions in this matter.”

Hannibal sits down on the bench, and looks up expectantly at Will.

“What’s the first lesson, Professor Graham?”  
  
Will allows himself a slight smile, as he says, “Let’s see—we should review the basics, run through emergency procedures.”  
  
“I worked in emergency rooms for the early part of my career. I’m quite adept at triage.”  
  
“That would come in handy if I slice my finger off while I’m chopping an onion—”

Hannibal interrupts before Will can finish. “Cordell had some very creative recipes for what he planned to do with my fingers once he removed them. We’d have to make do with what we have on board, but I’m sure I could improvise—”

Will’s back is to Hannibal, so the only indication of the shift in mood is the tense line of his shoulders and the way his grip on the railing suddenly tightens.

For several long seconds they are both completely silent, until Will takes a deep breath, and says, “You’ll need to know the protocols for man overboard—how to cast out the life saver and turn the boat around.”

Before Hannibal can speak, Will continues, “And you should know how to operate the boat on your own—how to adjust the sails, what to do if we run into a storm—“

“Are you planning on going somewhere?”  
  
“ _If_ something were to happen to me, having a luxury boat won’t do you much good f you don’t know how to steer it.” 

Will’s voice is harsh, and there’s a hint of a sneer in the way that he says _luxury._

Hannibal strides forward, and he reaches, resting his hand on Will’s left shoulder. Will flinches almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Will, I didn’t mean—”  
  
“It’s fine.” 

“Evidently, it’s not.”

Now Will does pull away. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”  
  
“This lesson or this journey?”

Will’s face contorts, as he says, “Both.”

He refuses to look at Hannibal, knowing that whatever expression is on the other man’s face will only make this harder, and it’s already hard enough, dealing with this swirling mess of emotions that’s overwhelming all attempt at rational thought. 

Will takes another deep breath and forces his tone to stay even. “I need to be alone for a while.”  
  
He can feel Hannibal’s desire to say something, to argue or persuade or manipulate, but he seems to think better of it, simply responding, “I’ll go down below.”

And with those words, Hannibal retreats, leaving Will alone on the deck, with only the open seas and his turbulent thoughts to keep him company.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the sporadic updating of this fic, but I've been in a better writing routine lately, so I'm hoping to get back to more regular updating going forward. I had intended to do a little more proofreading of this chapter before posting, but things got extra busy with work this week, so I just wanted to go ahead and post this chapter rather than delaying any further. Chapter 11 and Chapter 12 are each roughly halfway done, maybe a little more, so I'm going to try to get those posted in a more timely manner than I did with Chapter 10.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone for reading and leaving comments/kudos on this story so far, and if you have a moment, I'd love to hear what you think of this latest chapter!


End file.
